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Geoffrey Tillotson 




Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London 




Selected Sermons 





The Tamv/orth Reading Room 75 

Loss and Gain 113 

Discourses on the Scope and Nature of University 

Education 355 

History of my RcHgious Opinions 569 

Selected Letters 










Verses on Various Occasions 







When a great author writes mainly "prose of thinking" there is the 
clanger that his writing may come to belong too much to its special 
field and too little to literature as a whole. Newman has not com- 
pletely escaped this danger. Some of his works are still much read. 
When books were scarce in the late war a London bookseller told me 
that, if he had them on his shelves, he could have sold two copies of 
the Apologia daily. And there can be few educated people who have 
not read The Idea of a University. Both those books are of obvious 
general interest, as everything is that I have included in this selection: 
they are of as much interest to the secular-minded as to the religious. 
But those who read much further are interested in the "ecclesiastical" 
matter Newman usually treats of (by "ecclesiastical" I mean pertain- 
ing to the doctrines, character, history and material being of the 
Roman and Enghsh churches): these readers go to him as they go to 
Pusey or his modern equivalent, and would feel equally profited if 
his writings had been written by Pusey. Readers of this sort seek first 
his matter, no doubt loving it the more because it comes to them, 
shall we say, as meaning does in a sung service. On the other hand, 
there are readers who proceed further because they like great litera- 
ture and know that Newman's writings, for all their special interest, 
never cease to deal with the general matters literature likes to deal 
with, and to deal with them powerfully. I grant that the reader who 
mixes these two interests is the best sort for Newman. The perfect 
reader is one whose mind is as like his as possible — as much that of a 
sensuous poet as it is that of a thinker and worshipper. The case for 
meeting an author with what, comparatively speaking, is identity of 
mind has been much discussed in recent times. It was well urged by 
Coleridge on behalf of George Herbert: 

G. Herbert is a true poet, but a poet stii qcneris, the merits of whose poems 
will never be felt without a sympathy with the mind and character of the man. 
To appreciate this volume [The Temple], it is not enous^h that the reader 


possesses a cultivated judgment, classical taste, or even poetic sensibility, unless 
he be likewise a Christian, and both a zealous and an orthodox, both a devout 
and a devotional Christian. But even this will not quite suffice. He must be an 
affectionate and dutiful child of the Church, and from habit, conviction and 
a constitutional predisposition to ceremoniousness, in piety as in manners, find 
her forms and ordinances aids of religion, not sources of formality; for rehgion 
is the element in which he lives, and the region in which he moves. ^ 

This desideratum applies also to readers of Newman. The ideal reader 
for a writer who is a great writer and who writes mainly about the 
ecclesiastical must be both a Hterary critic and a believer, and both of 
them at a high intensity. In practice we fmd few readers to fill tliis 
bill. Writers on Newman tend to be disproportionately one thing or 
the other. They proceed as by a division of labour, which is the con- 
sequence no doubt of a cleavage of ordinary human minds into species 
— one sort of mind deals best with a certain thing, another sort with 
some other thing. Among these species the ecclesiastical exists at a 
remove from the others. The literary critic can take on historians (say 
Gibbon) and politicians (say Burke) and art critics (say Ruskin) more 
comfortably than he can take on Newman. And the reverse is true. 
The ecclesiastical writer is usually far from being the literary critic. 
An interesting example of this separation exists in one of the best 
papers ever written on Newman — the late Father Henry Tristram's 
"On Reading Newman'*,^ which purports to do nothing more than 
give the reader a sense of whereabouts amid Newman's many writ- 
ings, but does a great deal more than that. Tristram was one of the 
most devoted, learned and wise of Newman scholars — there is no one 
yet to fill the gap he has left — but I cannot help feeling that liis 
interest in Newman's Catholicism depressed Newman for him as a 
writer. In that essay he makes one misvaluation, as it seems to me, 
which strikes at Newman's literary credentials. I shall concern myself 
with it later on. 

Everybody agrees that Newman had many dazzling gifts. He was a 
distinguished holder of several public offices. He was a priest and so 
looked up to as an example in point of piety, learning and morality, 

^ Coleridge s Miscellaneous Criticism, ed. T. M. Raysor, 1936, p. 244. 

2 Contributed to John Henry Newman: Centenary Essays, 1945, pp. 223-41. 


a preacher, an instructor, a confidant and a counsellor, and his parish 
— to judge by his postbag — was the whole of intellectual England. He 
was Fellow and Tutor of a college, the most intellectually distin- 
guished in the Oxford of his day. He was one of the moving spirits 
of a great rebellion of thought. He was the centre of at least one 
informal and one formal fraternity. He founded and directed a scliool 
for boys. He edited magazines. He was a fashionable lecturer. He 
was head of a newly founded university. He became a Cardinal. And 
while holding all these offices he continued to be a prolific and much- 
read writer, unmatched for virtuosity: Polonius would have enjoyed 
listing the kinds — the controversial writings, tracts, poems, dialogues, 
essays, histories, open letters, biographies, autobiographies, lectures, 
treatises, novels, sermons, editorial prefacings and annotations. In a 
word he was one of the supreme geniuses of nineteenth-century 
England. And a supremely literary genius. If we v/ere to take upon 
ourselves the boldness of arranging his gifts in order of greatness, that 
for writing would, I think, come out near the top. There will always 
be a variety of views about his character and personality; as a leader 
of men he has had his dubious admirers; but to the literary critic he 
must always appear a writer among those "whom it is vain to blame 
and useless to praise". And so completely did his pen express his self, 
his affairs and his whole mental life — for so it seems — that his writings 
survive as a permanent medium for all of them in all their fulness. 

He himself did not encourage people to detach his literary gift from 
what it served and to rank it so high. "I am hardhearted," he wrote 
in 1848, "towards the mere Hterary ethos, for there is nothing I 
despise and detest more."^ It was a thing often said in the age of 
Victoria. He would not have cared to be a poet as Keats had been a 
poet, or, much as he admired the Waverley novels, a novelist as Scott 
had been a novelist. He must have despised what he came to see of 
the movement of "art for art's sake", which in revolt against the use, 
or over-use, of literature for the sake of practical matters grew strong 
in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Few of his writings are 
created without reference to contemporary affairs — the sort of con- 
temporary affairs to which newspapers like The Times and the Man- 
chester Guardian give their best attention. By the time he had many 
works to look back on he saw them as so much a part of the big 
public interests of their age as to fall into the category of things 
^ Quoted by Tristram, op. cit., p. 224. 


prompted by occasions. In the Advertisement before the Lectures and 
Essays on University Subjects, 1859, he noted (in the third person) that 

It has been the fortune of the author through hfe, that the volumes which 
he has pubhshed have grown for the most part out of the duties which lay upon 
him, or the circumstances of the moment. 

And again, in 1874: 

What I have written has been for the most part what may be called official, 
works done in some office I held or engagement I had made — all my Sermons 
are such, my Lectures on the Prophetical Office, on Justification, my Essays in 
the British Critic, and translation of St. Athanasius — or has been from some 
especial call, or invitation, or necessity, or emergency, as my Arians, Anglican 
Difficulties, "Apologia" or Tales. The Essay on Assent is nearly the only 
exception. And I cannot write without such a stimulus. I feel to myself going 
out of the way, or impertinent, and I write neither with spirit nor with point.* 

Many great works have been prompted by occasions and in the 
nineteenth century there was a higher proportion of them than in the 
eighteenth century and perhaps also the seventeenth century; but no 
nineteenth-century author wrote so high a proportion of them as 

All these self-descriptions are perfectly satisfactory, but on one 
level only. They ignore what, if I read him rightly, has much 
importance — the necessity which drove him not only to write so 
much and to write so clearly but to write so beautifully. To judge by 
results, if by no other evidence, he was born to be a writer — -just as 
Dickens was, and Thackeray, and the Brontes, and Tennyson, and 
Ruskin (who believed he was born to be a painter). ^ Newman began 
as a born writer should — by copying the styles of the writers he 
admired: "At the age of fourteen a sort of passion for writing seems 
to have possessed him."^ And, further: 

There are many boyish anticipations or buddings of his after thoughts noted 
down at about this date [1817]. On reading these later in life, Dr. Newman 
is severe on his early style: 

The unpleasant style in which it is written arises from my habit, from a 
boy, to compose. I seldom wrote without an eye to style, and since my taste 

* Wilfrid Ward, The Life of John Henry Cardinal Newman based on his Private 
Journals and Correspondence, 1912, ii. 400. Hereafter I refer to this work as 
Ward's Life. 

2 Augustine Birrell, Frederick Locker-Lamp son, 1920, p. 109. 

^ Letters and Correspondence of John Henry Newman during his Life in the English 
Church, ed. Anne Mozley, 1891, i. 19. Hereafter I refer to this work as Letters. 


was bad my style was bad. I wrote in style as another might write in verse, 
or sing instead of speaking, or dance instead of walking.^ 

And if this is true, wc must not take his insistence on occasions for 
more than it is worth. In the essay I have ahcady named, Tristram 
drew from the documents the following conclusion: 

whatever Newman was ... he certainly was not a writer, a man of letters, 
de son m^'tier. He only became such incidentally, as it were, in implementing 
his vocation as a priest, whether in his Anglican or in his Catholic days.^ 

This fails to allow that Newman became a printed author before he 
became a priest — it was as an undergraduate that he produced half of 
St. Bartholomew's Eve. And I shall have something to say later that 
bears on the word "incidentally". Those are small points, but 
Tristram, I think, soon went wrong more thoroughly: he believed 
that when Newman had his pen in his hand he was working against 
the grain, and so gives the impression that in less provoking times he 
would have written little or nothing. "He had no joy in writing, as 
such" — that was Tristram's view, and he based it on the much cor- 
rected state of Newman's manuscripts, and on his describing the pain- 
ful production of his books as "mental childbearing". 

Of his corrections Newman speaks on several occasions, as, for 
instance, in a letter of 1838: 

My book on Justification has taken incredible time. I am quite worn out 
with correcting. I do really think that every correction I make is for the better, 
and that I am not wasting time in an over-fastidious way, or even making 
it worse than it was; but I can only say this — openings for correction are 

I write, I write again: I write a third time in the course of six months. Then 
I take the third: I hterally fill the paper with corrections, so that another person 
could not read it. I then write it out fair for the printer. I put it by; I take it up; 
I begin to correct again: it will not do. Alterations multiply, pages are re- 
written, little lines sneak in and crawl about. The whole page is disfigured; I 
write again; I cannot count how many times this process is repeated.^ 

Nor did the correcting end with the printing of the manuscripts. 
However satisfactory a manuscript had seemed, its printed form always 
prompted further revisions for the second edition and for each suc- 
cessive one. The remarks I have just quoted are perhaps recalled a 

* Letters, i. 25. See also the letter to Hayes, pp. 8o2f , below. 
2 Op. cit., pp. 223f. 3 i^^-ttefs^ ii ;,^o. 



quarter of a century later in a letter to W. G. Ward — the most 
important of all the documents on this matter: 

I suspect your psychological facts [Ward had sent him two of his publica- 
tions], e.g. you speak at p. 26 of the "keen and constant pleasure which intel- 
lectual processes afford." I am far from denying there is a pleasure, and one 
providentially assigned, as pleasant flavour to food; but, if you mean that 
"keen and constant pleasure" attends ordinarily on intellectual processes, well, 
let them say so, who feel it. My own personal experience is the other way. It 
is one of my sayings, (so continually do I feel it) that the composition of a 
volume is like gestation and child-birth. I do not think that I ever thought out 
a question, or wrote my thoughts, without great pain, pam reaching to the 
body as well as to the mind. It has made me feel practically, that labour "in 
sudore vultus sui," is the lot of man, and that ignorance is truly one of his four 
wounds. It has been emphatically a penance; and in consequence I have hardly 
written anything, unless I was called to do it, e.g. I had to provide a sermon 
weekly for the pulpit &c. I recollect a friend asked me, soon after writing my 
volume on Justification, whether it was not interesting to write, and my answer 
was to the effect that "it was the painful reheving of an irritation," as a man 
might go to a dentist, not for "keen and constant pleasure," but with the 
mingled satisfaction and distress of being rid of pain by pain. When I wrote 
the Arians six years earlier, I was so exhausted at length, that for some days as 
it approached fmishing, I could scarce keep from fainting. The exercise which 
most nearly has approached to pleasure, has been the finding parallel passages 
to passages in St. Athanasius, or writing verses, processes which have not much 
of active intellect in them. I might say a great deal more on this subject; but 
I have said enough as giving the testimony of at least one person. 

What I feel, others may feel. Others again may feel neither your pleasure 
nor my pain. At all events, I think you must not take for granted, what aU men 
do not recognize to be true. 

What has been my own motive cause in writing may be that of others, — 
the sight of a truth, and the desire to show it to others. Juvenal says,"Facit in- 
dignatio versus." I do not feel this in the case of verse; I do, in die case of prose. 

I am far from denying of course, that, if one thinks one has done a thing 
well, one may be tempted to be pleased at it. But here it is the work effected 
not the process that pleases. "When the shore is won at last, Who will count 
the biUows passed?" Our Lord says, "When she is delivered of the child, she 
remembereth not the anguish, because Sec." Of course she may idolize her 
child, for the very reason that it has cost her pain, but pain never can be "keen 
and constant pleasure"; and she never would bear a child for the sake of the 

Not at all denying, then, that there is a class of minds such as your own. 
Sir W. Hamilton's, Lord Brougham's, and the Academics, to whom exercises 
of intellect are simply "keen and constant pleasure," I cannot tliink it is more 
than one class. ^ 

It is clear from these accounts that Newman was pleased at least 
1 Ward's Life, i. dsyf. 


with the results of his labours, as were his readers, even though one 
of them drew an unacceptable inference as to the "interestingness" of 
the process. As to its pleasure Newman was not conclusive: he 
granted that intellectual processes have a pleasure to them as pleasant 
as flavours are in food, but he also found pain in them. Not all pain, 
however, is painful and nothing else, and Newman's must have been 
qualified into some sort of pleasure by the warmth of his application, 
and his well-assured prospect of success. -"^ The labour of writing he 
might liken to battling with billows, but there are some swimmers 
who are confident that they can gain the shore. And though it was 
on the completion of the process that Newman spoke pleasantly of 
"little lines [that] sneak in and crawl about", the timing may not be 
significant, for it is obvious that he enjoyed the use of the pen as a deft 
instrument. His handwriting had a rapid economy not without 
elegance,^ even when modified under stress; and the business of mak- 
ing lines sneak and crawl accommodatingly cannot but please in some 
sort. We may contrast Shelley. He believed that "when composition 
begins, inspiration is already on the decline",^ and accordingly his 
manuscripts are without trace of pleasure — Trelawny describes that of 
"Ariel to Miranda . . ." as like "a sketch of a marsh overgrown with 
bulrushes, and the blots for wild ducks".* Newman is another 
matter. I cannot but compare him with Pope, whose handwriting 
was aesthetically similar to his, and who explained his numerous and 
constant corrections by "I corrected because it was as pleasant to me 
to correct as to write" ^ — an airy account, but airy merely because 
in accord with Addisonian manners. Only one valid inference can 
finally, I think, be drawn from the evidence of fact and comment — 
namely that Newman did not belong to the less common of the two 
classes of writers distinguished by him, the writers whose words come 
right straight off, but to the class of inky strugglers. And so the 

^ Cf. the letter written after the success of the lectures in the University at 
Dubhn: "I have been prospered here in my lectures beyond my most sanguine 
expectations . . . my good Lord has never left me, nor failed me in my wliolc 
life" (Fr. McGrath, Newman s University, 1951, p. 161). 

^ Cf. Charles Reding in Loss and Gain, below, p. 321: "I know persons . . . 
who beheve that handwriting is an indication of calUng and character." 

^ Defence of Poetry, para. 10 from the end. 

* Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron, cd. E. Dowden, 1923. 
p. 50. 

^ Preface to Works 171 7, para. 6. 



presence or absence of correction has at bottom nothing to do with 
the presence or absence of joy. For him composition in all its fulness 
was the only means of making inspiration profitable to great numbers 
of men — or fully profitable even to himself. Without the aid of 
words in their concretest and most exacting form, he could not come 
by his sense as a thing established in the shades of meaning he was so 
well gifted to discriminate. He had no choice but to work at expres- 
sion, but then he was never one to jib at work. 

Nor, finally, do we lack external evidence that pains could some- 
times be joyful to the point of hilarity — as they were for Cowper 
when he wrote "J^lin Gilpin": 

The author's enjoyment of this task is illustrated by an anecdote told by Mr. 
Kegan Paul in his "Biographical Sketches": "A friend, also a convert, related 
not long since how, in the winter of 1847, he was a very constant visitor to 
Dr. Newman and was puzzled at faiding him so frequently laughing to himself 
over the manuscript on which he was then engaged, till he said: 'You do not 
know what I have been doing. Poor Burns, the late High Church publisher, 
a convert like ourselves, has got into difficulties, owing to his change of faith 
and I am going to give him this manuscript [that of Loss and Gaifi] to see if 
it may not help him a little out of them.' " ^ 

Evidently no laughter issued from the writer of Lectures on Justifica- 
tion, but I do not think we need go to the other extreme and beheve 
with Tristram that Newman found "no joy in writing, as such". 
Some pleasure must also have come from one of the objects that the 
corrections had in view. They were not solely intellectual. If they 
had been only that, the achievement of clarity and order would have 
been enough. Newman's labours sought also sensuousness, both of 
music and colour. These are objects of poetical composition and we 
have Newman's word for it that for him their pursuit "most nearly 
. . . approached to pleasure". 

Nor must we take "occasions" in too strict a sense. Many were 
invited. If you take orders you expect to have to deliver sermons. If 
you become a Fellow of an Oxford college and are also (as you had 
to be at that time) in orders, you may expect to be asked to preach 
before the University. If you become eminent in a cause, people on 

^ Ward's Life, i. 191. 



both sides will look to you for guidance or for "a statement". Many 
occasions Newman consciously laid himself open for. Of the rest 
several were potent only because he allowed them to be. The occasion 
for his writhig The Tamworth Reading Room was the report of the 
speech delivered by a politician in his far-away constituency when 
opening a library for working men. The occasion for Who's to 
Blame? was less pointed still — Newman wrote it because, like the rest 
of England, he had read about the conduct of the Crimean War. 
Even the Apologia sprang from a chosen occasion — there had been 
many taunts against him before he chose to reply to Kingsley's. The 
same is true even of the novel. Loss and Gain — there had been many 
novels about religious converts before Miss Harris's From Oxford to 
Rome. And when he wrote without the sort of stimulus he had in 
mind, which in varying degrees we can call public, he did not step 
outside his usual matter — the undergraduate poem is on a rehgious 
subject, the Dream of Gcrontius deals with a theme he had treated in 
the sermons, the Grammar of Assent follows on from the university 
sermons. In other words, both when he is free and when he is called, 
he writes on a matter one and the same. He is not a writer who wants 
to write on one matter but is obliged by duties to write on another. 
Even if his so-called occasions had not cropped up, we should have 
had writings, in the main, similar to those we have. Do not therefore 
let us take his speaking of occasions too seriously — he did not do so 
himself, when for the title of his collected poems he revived the 
eighteenth-century formula Verses on Various Occasions. 

There was, I think, a psychological reason for his appeal to occa- 
sions. Newman subscribed to a then rather old-fashioned conception 
of the gentleman. We know how charming were his social manners 
on almost all of the thousands of recorded occasions, hi his writings 
Matthew Arnold found the same "delicacy" and "urbanity". His 
written words are often beautifully apologetic if he fears that there 
will be offence or crudity in some point or other he is driven to make. 
Alternative to this humility and charm there is of course fierceness and 
sharpness; but that comes from between the cracks. The man and 
writer when, as almost invariably, he lived up to his ideal for himself, 
was extremely polite. We can see him as wanting to write under 
certain conditions, one of which was the psychological or social con- 
dition of having an occasion that could be agreed to be public enough 
to allow him not to seem obtrusive: in the passage quoted above he 



Speaks of his need not to feel "impertinent". But again we should 
note that his required easiness on that score is represented as a literary 
requirement also. Unless he felt welcome to write, the product would 
lack the prized literary virtues of "spirit" and "point". 

As fmal reason there was his strong need to feel assured that when 
he spoke he should be speaking to men. How strong that need was 
can be illustrated by one of the most remarkable passages he ever 
wrote, a passage that is one of the additions made from time to time 
to the manuscript account of his tour in Sicily, The particular addition 
was made at Littlemore in 1840, when he was taking to his "death- 
bed" as an Anghcan:^ so far as I know it has not before been printed 
whole, and I am grateful to the Oratory at Birmingham for allowing 
its appearance here: 

The thought keeps pressing on me, while I write tliis, what am I writing it 
for? For myself, I may look at it once or twice in my hfe, and what sympathy 
is there in my looking at it? Whom have I, whom can I have, who would 
take interest in it? I was going to say, I only found one who ever took that 
sort of affectionate interest in me as to be pleased with such details — and this 
is H[enry] W[ilberforce] and what shall I even see of him? This is the sort of 
interest which a wife takes and none but she — it is a woman's interest — and 
that interest, so be it, shall never be taken in me. Never, so be it, will I be 
other than God has found me. All my habits for years, my tendencies, are 
towards celibacy. I could not take that interest in this world which marriage 

requires — I am too disgusted with this world And, above all, call it what 

one will, I have a repugnance to a clergyman's marrying. I do not say it is not 
lawful — I cannot deny the right — but, whether a prejudice or not, it shocks 
me. And therefore I willingly give up the possession of that sympathy, wliich 

I feel is not, cannot be, granted to me Yet, not the less do I feel the need 

of it. Who will care to be told such details as I have put down above? Shall 
I ever have in my old age spiritual children who will take an interest such as 
a wife does? How time is getting on! I seem to be reconciling myself to the 
idea of being old. It seems but yesterday that the Whigs came into power 
[1830]; another such to-morrow will make me almost fifty, an elderly man. 
What a dream is Hfe [!] I used to regret festival days going quick. They are 
come and they are gone; but, so it is, time is nothing except as the seed of 
eternity. 2 

In any man's life there must be several "spots of time" when thoughts 
like this are thought, but few, if any, when they are written down. 
Newman provided this exception, and a himdred like it, because he 
was a man who found writing a solace in itself, and also because, for 
as profound a reason, he longed to have readers — at some near point 
^ See below, p. 687. - My text is from a transcript of Tristra m's. 



of time for preference, but if not that, at a later. I think wc can dis- 
cern in much of the writing, pubhc and private, his strong need to 
achieve communication. This need accounts for the clarity of every- 
thing he w^rote. Of the millions of his vv^ritten sentences there can be 
few which do not convey what they were meant to convey. But 
along with the need for light went the need for sweetness — or, at 
times, sharpness. He wished to communicate something defmite and 
to communicate it personally. The motto he chose for his cardinalatc 
was cor ad cor loquitur — heart speaks to heart. For many reasons his 
words had often to be written words, and as means of expression 
written words have notorious limitations, especially where they are 
speaking the matters of the heart. Communication of the most 
piercing kind comes usually by other even more primitive means. 
"Voices melt us, looks subdue us, deeds inflame us" ^ — that names 
three other powerful means. In his sermons he could rely on two of 
them in addition to words, and he relied on them to some purpose, 
for we have many accounts of the thrilling experience of hearing and 
seeing him preach. His lectures, too, availed themselves of the means 
of words, voice and look. When writings were written only for cold 
print Newman used many arts to suggest the completer range of 
medium. His printed words carry as much personal force as any 
words ever have. They take on as much of tones, looks and gestures 
as possible. For us who never heard his voice, the print seems to 
speak, and the famous face looks out from the page. 


Newman loved the means of communication and the art of making 
the most of them. We are fortunate that it was so, for he might not 
have cared. In the Apologia he speaks of his "mistrust of the rcahty of 
material phenomena" and his "rest[ing] in the thought of two and 
two only supreme and luminously self-evident beings, myself and my 
Creator".^ The words he designed for his tombstone spoke the same 


IN veritatem/ die— a.s. i8[ ]/ REQUiESCAT IN PACE." Feeling the 
things of the world to be shadows, he might have been haunted by 
their insubstantiality to the point of neglecting the material a writer 
must use. We recall the Scotch-Calvinist gardener in The Ncii'conies 
^ Sec below, p. loi. 2 Sec below, p. 581. 

N— B 17 


who handled the melons and pineapples "provisionally, and until the 
end of the world". ^ In his writings, however, Newman handled 
earthly things as if they were real, as if he were as sure of them as he 
was of himself and his Creator. In his writings he seems as thorouglily 
at home among things as Chaucer or Shakespeare or Pope or Dickens. 
He speaks — if we add his unpublished to his published writings — with 
complete freedom: in the manuscript text of his account of the 
Sicilian tour he refers to piles and Epsom salts. There is notliing 
particularly literary in the mere possessing of this freedom, but it helps 
to produce the keen effects a piece of writing is the better for. New- 
man is constantly keen, however, not just because of his free speech 
but because his mind is sensuous, and therefore ready with the 
imagery which the sensuous mind contributes freely to tliinking and 
feeling. He was sensitive enough as a physical organism to be sharply 
aware of the finger-tips of his Sicihan servant when applying vinegar 
to his nose, and he was agile enough of mind to connect the sensation 
with one stored in his memory — he writes of them as "great bullet- 
tips". Everywhere in his writings is the proof of this sensitiveness of 
sense and this prehensile agility of mind. It is the most obvious of the 
proofs that he is a poet. And it serves him very well as a philosopher. 
He is often dealing with abstract matter and dealing with it for the 
benefit of as many readers as he can gather. So that none shall turn 
aside because of too great an abstraction, he uses much imagery. He 
"remembereth that we are dust". His very account of tliinking is as 
of a physical process.^ 

Finally, it is by virtue of much of liis matter that Newman stands 
square with our great writers. He writes often about what literature 
most prefers to deal with. His constant attention to the "scope and 
nature" of Christianity enfolds an attention as close to quotidian 
affairs. He is as alert to the trivial round as Wordsworth or Hardy; 
as alert as Matthew Arnold to those urgent public matters of the day 
— e.g. cholera, mesmerism, the goldfields — which pitilessly exact 
from journalists their "nutshell truths for the breakfast table" ;^ as 
alert as a novelist to the personal characteristics of everybody he met. 

^ Thackeray, The Newcomes, Chr. III. 

2 See below, pp. 59f. ^ Sec below, p. 363. 



And since he is often the philosopher, there is much attention to 
another prime concern of htcrature — the nature of man. Though his 
hope is always to shame the nature in man and to divert his natural 
religion into Christianity, he docs not scamp his study of all that we 
are by unaided nature. 

Co-extensive with the consideration of all these things stretches his 
untiring introspection. There were several reasons for that activity, 
one of which was his frank love of particulars. The nearest source of 
these lay in his own field of body, mind and spirit, each of which 
seemed to him as important as the others because making an equal 
contribution to a whole. In Loss and Gain we hear that 

A man's moral being ... is concentrated in each moment of his life; it lives in 
the tips of his fingers, and the spring of his insteps.^ 

Or there is the mixed account of his leaving Littlemore in 1846: 

I am burning and packing pari passu reading and disposing, passing from a 
metaphysical MS. to a lump of resin or a penwiper.^ 

And in another letter written a little later: 

I quite tore myself away, and could not help kissing my bed, and mantel- 
piece, and other parts of the house. I have been most happy there, though in 
a state of suspense.^ 

When in the Apologia he recalls how the Anglican Church looked to 
him after leaving it, he seems to be looking at it, and at the Roman 
Church, with physical as well as mental eyes: 

I have been bringing out my mind in this Volume on every subject which 
has come before me; and therefore I am bound to state plainly what I feel and 
have felt, since I was a Cathohc, about the AngUcan Church, I said, in a former 
page, that, on my conversion, I was not conscious of any change in me of 
thought or feeling, as regards matters of doctrine; this, however, was not the 
case as regards some matters of fact, and, unwilhng as I am to give offence to 
religious AngUcans, I am bound to confess that I felt a great change in my 
view of the Church of England. I cannot tell how soon there came on me, 
— but very soon, — an extreme astonishment that I had ever imagined it to be 
a portion of the Catholic Church. For the first time, I looked at it from with- 
out, and (as I should myself say) saw it as it was. Forthwith I could not get 
myself to see in it any thing else, than what I had so long fearfully suspected, 
from as far back as 1836, — a mere national institution. As if my eyes were 
suddenly opened, so I saw it — spontaneously, apart front any dofmitc act of 

^ See below, pp. 32if.; cf. the bullet-tips, p. 18, above. 
2 Ward's Life, i. 115. ^ Ward's Life, i. 117. 



reason or any argument; and so I have seen it ever since. I suppose, the main 
cause of tliis lay in the contrast which was presented to me by the CathoHc 
Church. Then I recognized at once a reaUty which was quite a new thing with 
me. Then I was sensible that I was not making for myself a Church by an 
effort of thought; I needed not to make an act of faith in her; I had not painfully 
to force myself into a position, but my mind fell back upon itself in relaxation 
and in peace, and I gazed at her almost passively as a great objective fact. I 
looked at her; — at her rites, her ceremonial, and her precepts; and I said, "This 
is a religion;" and then, when I looked back upon the poor Anglican Church, 
for wliich I had laboured so hard, and upon all that appertained to it, and 
thought of our various attempts to dress it up doctrinally and esthetically, it 
seemed to me to be the veriest of nonentities. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity! 
How can I make a record of what passed within me, without seeming to be 

And to take a last random instance from the mass, there is the letter 
of 1862 which he addressed to the Globe newspaper in an attempt to 
silence once for all the reports that he was returning to the Enghsh 
Church, and in which he seems to be spewing it and all its works out 
of his mouth: 

Therefore, in order to give them full satisfaction, if I can, I do hereby profess 
ex aniino with an absolute internal assent and consent, that Protestantism is 
the dreariest of possible religions; that the thought of the Anghcan service 
makes me shiver, and the thought of the Thirty-nine Articles makes me 
shudder. Return to the Church of England! No! "The net is broken and we 
are delivered." I should be a consummate fool (to use a mild term) if in my 
old age I left "the land flowing with milk and honey" for the city of confusion 
and the house of bondage.^ 

He ejects the Anghcan Church as if he has it in liis system, and his Hfe 
up to the secession shows us he had. That was why he was so uncon- 
sciously long a-dying as an Anglican. He drew all tilings into liimself,^ 
so that even an external thing like a logical demonstration or a history 
issues from him as personal as a love letter. This unusual characteristic 
was soon seized on by liis contemporaries: when the Quarterly 
Review began its sixty-page-long review of that book of liis wliich 
had so much general interest for its own tune and ours * — the Essay 

^ Apologia, Ward's ed., pp. 393f ^ Ward's Life, i. 581. 

^ Cf. Leslie Stephen's masterly review of the Essay in Aid of a Gramntar of 
Assent, collected in An Agnostic's Apology, 1893, pp. 205ff. 

* Sec the letter of 1878 from Mark Pattison to Newman, quoted in my 
Criticism and the Nineteenth Century, 1951, p. 200; and A. N. Whitehead's 
Adventures of Ideas, 1933, p. vii, which records a debt to Gibbon's Decline and 
Fall and Newman's Essay on Development et al., for his "general way of looking 
at [his] historical topic". 



on Development — it recognized that here was a book that was more 
than a book: 

Our business is with Mr. Newman's book, not with Mr. Newman himself 
... It will, however, be impossible altogclher to separate the examination of 
his work from what Mr. Coleridge would have called the psychological study 
of his mind — so completely is the one the reflexion, dare we use the word, the 
transfiguration of one into the other. ^ 

As we should expect, he does not always rest content with the colour- 
ing his mind has given to his matter— he often lingers to describe the 
pigmentation and how he felt during its process. A frequent effect in 
his writings is that his thinking is progressing alongside a diary of the 
experience of the thinking for "the whole man".^ This "whole man" 
contained for him the unconscious, or what we should call the sub- 
conscious. If he reproduced on paper the light in his mind, he also 
reproduced the darkness with which it coexisted, and he looked at the 
darkness as hard as at the light, histances are everywhere in the cor- 
respondence and in the Apologia. 

Because of all this, Newman is one of the sliining demonstrations 
that the style is the man. His personaHty exists as clearly in his style as 
in his choice of matter — or, rather, in his choice of just that shade and 
aspect of his matter. And since he constantly gives us consideration 
of the thing as well as the thing itself, it was to be expected that he 
should offer an account of the personality of style. I quote it at length 
because it is one of the most luminous things he wrote, confirming 
his belief that "simplicity ... is the attribute of genius":^ 

Here then, in the first place, I observe. Gentlemen, that. Literature, from the 
derivation of the word, implies writing, not speaking; this, however, arises 
from the circumstance of the copiousness, variety, and public circulation of the 
matters of which it consists. What is spoken cannot outrun the range of the 
speaker's voice, and perishes in the uttering. When words are in demand to 
express a long course of thought, when they have to be conveyed to the ends 
of the earth, or perpetuated for the benefit of posterity, they must be written 
down, that is, reduced to the shape of literature; still, properly speaking, the 
terms, by which we denote this characteristic gift of man, belong to its exhibi- 
tion by means of the voice, not of handwriting. It addresses itself, in its 
primary idea, to the car, not to the eye. We call it the power of speech, we 

* Quarterly Rei'iew, Ixxvii (Dec-Mar. 1845-6), p. 405. 
^ Sec below, p. 704. 

^ In the lecture "Literature" in Lectures and Essays on University Subjects, i S59, 
p. 50. 



call it language, that is, the use of the tongue; and, even when we write, we 
still keep in mind what was its original instrument, for we use freely such terms 
in our books as saying, speaking, telling, talking, calHng; we use the terms 
phraseology and diction; as if we were still addressing ourselves to the ear. 

Now I insist on this, because it shows that speech, and therefore literature, 
which is its permanent record, is essentially a personal work. It is not some 
production or result, attained by the partnership of several persons, or by 
machinery, or by any natural process, but in its very idea it proceeds, and must 
proceed, from some one given individual. Two persons cannot be the authors 
of the sounds which strike our ear; and, as they cannot be speaking one and 
the same speech, neither can they be writing one and the same lecture or dis- 
course, — which must certainly belong to some one person or other, and is the 
expression of that one person's ideas and feelings, — ideas and feehngs personal 
to himself, though others may have parallel and similar ones, — proper to him- 
self, in the same sense as his voice, his air, his countenance, his carriage, and his 
action, are personal. In other words. Literature expresses, not objective truth, 
as it is called, but subjective; not things, but thoughts. 

. . . Literature is the personal use or exercise of language. That this is so, is 
further proved from the fact that one author uses it so differently from another. 
Language itself in its very origination would seem to be traceable to individuals. 
Their peculiarities have given it its character. We are often able in fact to 
trace particular phrases or idioms to individuals; we know the history of their 
rise. Slang surely, as it is called, comes of, and breathes of the personal. The 
connection between the force of words in particular languages and the habits 
and sentiments of the nations speaking them, has often been pointed out. And, 
while the many use language, as they find it, the man of genius uses it indeed, 
but subjects it withal to his own purposes, and moulds it according to his own 
pecuUarities. The throng and succession of ideas, thoughts, feelings, imagina- 
tions, aspirations, which pass within liim, the abstractions, the juxtapositions, 
the comparisons, the discriminations, the conceptions, which are so original in 
him, his views of external things, his judgments upon life, manners, and history, 
the exercises of his w^it, of his humour, of his depth, of his sagacity, — he images 
forth all these iimumerable and incessant creations, the very pulsation and 
throbbing of his intellect, — he gives utterance to them all, — in a corresponding 
language, which is as multiform as this inward mental action itself and 
analogous to it, the faithful expression of liis intense personaHty, attending on 
his own inward world of thought as its very shadow: so that we might as well 
say that one man's shadow is another's, as that the style of a really gifted mind 
can belong to any but himself. It follows him about as a shadow. His thought 
and feeling are personal, and so his language is personal.^ 

Constantly exemplifying this theme, Newman is among the most 
fascinating writers of Enghsh. If the declared aim of his use of English 
was clarity, the result is not colourless transparency. Art is supposed 
either to hide or show itself, but there are countless degrees of the 

^ Lectures and Essays on University Subjects, 1859, pp. 35ff. 


concealment and cxliibition. The art of Newman's writing is never 
wholly hidden. It comes near to being so in the "plain" and "par- 
ochial" sermons, where, as I have said, it was designed to receive 
the added arts of the voice and general presence of the preacher. 
Elsewhere in his writings the art is usually less concealed. In the 
Tracts it is sometimes noticeably abrupt, and deliberately so — Thomas 
Mozley said that among the Tractarians only Newman "could write 
a tract", giving as explanation that only he had read enough of them 
himself.^ In the pieces reprinted here the art is more patent and more 
smooth. Its variety is obvious. By and large, it is triumphant. And, 
in accordance with that Newmanian law, he tells us how he made it 
so. I have already quoted the material evidence of his care and given 
some of his own accounts of his corrections. The tiling written was 
expression achieved, imperfect at first and then more perfect. What 
guiding principle was at work is suggested in Newman's definition — 
one of the best we have — of style, which he called "a thinking out 
into language",^ a process that was almost palpable for him: 

Besides re-writing, every part has to be worked out and defined as in moulding 
a statue.^ 

As usual, Newman speaks his difficult matter so clearly because his 
experience of it has been his own, and being that, has been of extreme 


In consequence of all this, the case for regarding Newman as 
supremely literary as well as supremely "ecclesiastical" is inescapable. 
It is obvious enough from the pieces printed in this selection. A 
selection they are, but rather because the exclusion of nine tenths of 
his works was decreed by the conditions under wdiich the Rc}-nard 
Library exists. 1 should like to see those works printed whole— i.e. the 
letters and manuscript leavings, and the books (and contributions to 
the books of others) along with their successive prefaces and textual 
variants. With all that to hand, w^e could face the proverbial desert 

^ Reminiscences chiefly of Oriel College and (he Oxford Movement, 1882, i. 312. 
^ In the lecture "Literature" in Lectures and Essays on University Subjects, 1859, 
p. 41. 

^ Correspondence of. . , Newman with . . . Kehle [&:c.], 1917, p. 382. 



island. Enforced to choose in the present instance, I have chosen some 
of my own favourite things — except that among the sermons and 
letters there is an unbroken level of excellence, v^hich hmits the power 
of choice as in a sortilegy. The things chosen are among those which 
most obviously interest the general reader, but it would be wrong to 
consider them as more literary than those I have passed over. One of 
the points I wish to make is that Newman is always literary, even, all 
things considered, when he is most narrowly ecclesiastical. How well 
he caught himself — all the more truly because from an unusual angle 
— in a letter of 1850: 

You must undeceive Miss A. B. about nic, though I suppose she uses words in 
a general sense. I have notliing of a saint about me as every one knows, and 
it is a severe (and salutary) mortification to be thought next door to one. I 
may have a high view of many things, but it is the consequence of education 
and a pccuUar cast of intellect — but this is very different from being what I 
admire. I have no tendency to be a saint — it is a sad thing to say so. Saints are 
not literary men, they do not love the classics, they do not write Tales. ^ 

In quoting that I feel compunction at taking him when, compara- 
tively, he is off his guard. So strongly does he recoil from the ascribed 
saintliness that he opposes to it the most secular self-description, 
imputing to himself the hterary ethos he had said he was "hard- 
hearted" against. Offered as proof of his weakness, the description is 
of strength in a different department. And with it goes a remark, 
which again one feels some compunction in overhearing — it occurs 
late in those sincerest of sincere documents, the letters he sent to Keble 
during the long period of his secession: 

My great fault is doing things in a mere literary way from the love of the 
work, without the thought of God's glory.^ 

It happens that under obedience to chronology Wilfrid Ward passes 
directly from the letter repudiating saintliness to the Lectures oil Certain 
Difficulties felt by Anglicans, with which, after some hesitation, New- 
man met the occasion of the Gorham judgement.^ Merely as a matter 
of course he describes the lectures as "brilliantly witty". Yes, they arc 

^ Ward's Life, i. 229f. ^ Correspondence . . . with Keble, 1917, p. 245. 

^ Namely, to use Ward's concise words, the "celebrated decision of the 
Privy Council . . . overruling the refusal of the Bishop of Exeter (confirmed 
by the court of Arches) to institute Mr. G. C. Gorham to the vicarage of 
Brampford Speke on the ground that he denied the doctrine of baptismal 
regeneration" (i. 230). 


accurately that, and the ease with which he can be brilhantly witty 
seals him of the tribe of the Henry Jameses and Oscar Wildes as cer- 
tainly as the capacity to write on ecclesiastical matters seals him of the 
tribe of the Puseys and W. G. Wards. And he had other gifts as 
literary, like that which made George Eliot find I1ic Present Position 
of Catholics "full of clever satire and description",^ or like that which 
made Pater praise his Idea of a University as showing "the perfect 
handling of a theory".^ 


University of London, 
Birkbcck College. 
July 1955' 

^ The George Eliot Letters, cd. Gordon S. Haight, 1954-5, i- 372- Another 
letter records the stages of her interest in the Apologia: "I have been reading 
Newman's Apologia pro Vita Sua, with such absorbing interest that I found 
it impossible to forsake the book until I had finished it. I don't know whether 
the affair between him and Kingsley has interested you, or whether you have 
shared at all my view of it. I have been made so indignant by Kingslcy's 
mixture of arrogance, coarse impertinence and unscrupulousness with real 
intellectual mcompetence, that my first interest in Newman's answer arose 
from a wish to sec what I consider thoroughly vicious writing thoroughly 
castigated. But the Apology now mainly affects me as the revelation of a life 
— how different in form from one's own, yet with how close a fellowship 
in its needs and burthens — I mean spiritual needs and burthens" (iv. I58f ). 
Another letter remarks that the Apologia has "breathed nmch life into her", 
and that she "would like to make an expedition to Birmingham for [the] sole 
end" of "seeing and hearing Newman" (iv. 160). 

^Appreciations, 1889, p. 14. Father McGrath argues against the unqualified 
acceptance of this praise, op. cit., p. 292. In 1852 at least Newman was greatly 
pleased with the work in its first printed form (see below, p. 354). 


The editor and publishers wish to record their gratitude to Father 
Herbert Kcldany of the Newman Association for the loan oi several 
of the early editions of Newman's books, from which these texts 
have been taken. 


chronological Table 

1801, 21 February: Born in Old Broad Street, London. 
1808, I May: Entered Ealing School. 

1817, 8 June: Went into residence at Trinity College, Oxford. 

1818, 18 May: Elected Scholar of Trinity College, Oxford. 
1820, 5 December: Took B.A. Degree. 

1821: St. Bartholomew's Eve: a talc of the sixteenth century (with J. W. 

1822, 12 April: Elected Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford. 

1823, 4 June: Took M.A. Degree. 

1824, 16 May: Engaged to take the curacy of St. Clement's, Oxford, 
offered him on Pusey's suggestion. 

1824, 13 June: Ordained deacon at Christ Church, Oxford. 
1824, 23 June: "Went to Worton to preach my first sermon." 

1824, 4 July: "Took service for first time at St. Clement's, my first 

1825, 26 March: Accepted the offer of Whately, Principal of Alban 
Hall, of the Vice-Principalship. 

1825, 29 May: Ordained priest at Christ Church, Oxford. 

1826, 20 January: "Settled that I was to be one of the Oriel Public 
Tutors, begimiing at Easter." 

1828, 14 March: Instituted by the Bishop of Oxford to St. Mary's. 

1832: Mefnorials of the Past. 

1833, 14 July: Keble preached the morning Assize Sermon. "I have 
ever considered and kept the day, as the start of the religious 
movement of 1833" {Apologia, p. 604, below). 

1833: The Arians of the Fourth Century. 

1 83 3-1 841: Tracts for the Times (main contributor). 

1 83 4-1 842: Parochial Sermons (six vols.). 

1836: Lyra Apostohca (main contributor). 

1836: Elucidations of Dr. Hampden s Theological Statements. 

1836: Letter to the Margaret Professor of Divinity. 



1837: Lectures on the Prophetical Office of the Church. 

1838: Lectures on Justification. 

1840: The Church of the Fathers. 

1 841, 27 February: Tract go published. 

1 842-1 844: Select Treatises of S. Athaiiasius, translated with notes. 

1843: Sermons, bearing on Subjects of the Day. 

1843: Plain Sermons V (anon., the fifth vohuiie of a scries by the 

contributors to the Tracts for the Times.) 
1843: Sermons preached before the University of Oxford. 
1843, 19 September: Resigned St. Mary's. 
1843, 25 September: "Preached my last sermon." 
1844: Lives of St. Bettelin (prose only), St. Edelwald and St. 

Gundleus in Lives of the English Saints. 
1845: An Essay on the Development of Christian Doctrine. 
1845, 3 October: Resigned Fellowship. 
1845, 9 October: Admitted into the Cathohc Church by Father 


1847, 30 May: Ordained priest by Cardinal Fransoni. 

1848, I February: Set up the Enghsh Congregation of the Oratory. 
1848: Loss and Gain. 

1849: Discourses addressed to Mixed Congregations. 
1850: Lectures on certain Difficulties felt by Anglicans. 

1850, 22 August: Admitted to the Doctorate of Divinity. 
1 851: Lectures on the Present Position of Catholics. 

1851, 12 November: Appointed Rector of the Catholic University 
of Ireland. 

1852: Discourses on the Scope and Nature of University Education. 

1853: Verses on Religious Subjects. 

1854: Lectures on the History of the Turks in its relation to Christianity. 

1856: Callista: a Sketch of the Third Century. 

1856: The Office and Work of the Universities. 

1857: Sermons Preached on Various Occasions. 

1858, 12 November: Resigned Rectorship of the Cathohc University 

of Ireland. 
1859: Lectures and Essays on University Subjects. 
1859, 2 May: Founded the Oratory School, Birmingham. 
1864: Mr. Kingsley and Dr. Newnian: A Correspondence. 
1864: Apologia pro Vita Sua. 
1866: A Letter to the Rev. E. B. Pusey. 


1866: The Dream of Gcrontius. 

.1868: Verses on Various Occasions. 

1870: An Essay in aid of a Grammar of Assent. 

1872: Causes of the Rise and Successes of Arianism. 

1874: The Heresy of ApoUinaris. 

1875: A Letter Addressed to His Grace the Duke of Norfolk. 

1877, 15 December: Elected Honorary Fellow of Trinity College, 

1879, 12 May: Created Cardinal. 
1890: Stray Essays on Controversial Points. 
1890, II August: Died. 
1890, 19 August: Buried at Rednal, the Oratorian country house 

near Birmingham. 
1893 : Meditations and Devotions. 

The following volumes in the Uniform Edition, edited by New- 
man himself (i 869-1 881), contain either (a) articles contributed to 
periodicals or (h) papers originally published as pamphlets: 

Two Essays on Miracles (1870). 

Essays Critical and Historical (1871). 

Historical Sketches (1872), 

Discussions and Arguments (1872). 

The Idea of a University (1873). 

Tracts Theological and Ecclesiastical (1874). 

The Via Media (1877). 



Newman's Anglican sermons were first published as follows: 
(a) Parodiial Sermons, six volumes, 1834, 1835, 1837, 1839, 1840, 
1842 respectively, and several times reprinted; {b) Make VenUires 
for Christ's Sake, a single sermon with a preface, anon., 1836; 
(c) Sermons on Subjects of the Day, 1843; (d) Sermons, Chiefly on 
the Theory of Religions Belief preached before the University of 
Oxford, 1843; (e) Plain Sermons, by Contributors to the "Tracts for 
the Times", vol. V (1843), anon. Of these (a), {b), (c) and (e) 
are parochial sermons, most, perhaps all, preached in St. Mary's, 
Oxford, and at Littlemorc; and (d) are sermons preached before 
the University in accordance with duties and invitations. 

Of the sermons here reprinted the first two are from Parochial 
Sermons ii (1835), the third from (c) and the last from (d). This 
last is the only instance in the present volume of Newman writ- 
ing formally as an analyst of the mind of man — or, more 
accurately, of his mind, soul and body forming one organism. 

The faotnotes are Newman's. 



Hebrews xii. 2. 
Looking unto Jesus, the Author and Finisher of our faith. 

Surely it is our duty ever to look oft' ourselves, and to look unto 
Jesus; that is, to slum the contemplation of our own feelings, emo- 
tions, frame, and state of mind, as the main business of rehgion, and 
to leave these mainly to be secured in their fruits. Some remarks were 
made yesterday upon this "more excellent" and Scriptural wa)' of 
conducting ourselves, as it has ever been received in the Church; now 
let us consider the merits of the rule for holy living, which the fashion 
of this day would substitute for it. 

Instead of looking off' to Jesus, and tliinking little of ourselves, 
it is at present thought necessary among the mixed multitude of 
religionists, to examine the heart, with a view of ascertaining whether 
it is in a spiritual state or no, A spiritual frame of mind is considered 
to be one in which the hcinousness of sin is perceived, our utter worth- 
lessness, the impossibility of our saving ourselves, the necessity of some 
Saviour, the sufficiency of our Lord Jesus Christ to be that Saviour, 
the unbounded riches of His love, the excellence and glory of His 
work of Atonement, the freeness and fulness of His grace, the high 
privilege of communion with Him in prayer, and the desirableness of 
walking with Him in all holy and loving obedience; all of them 
solemn truths, too solemn to be lightly mentioned, but our hearty 
reception of which is scarcely ascertainable by a direct inspection of 
our feelings. Moreover, if one doctrine must be selected above the 
rest as contaniing the essence of the truths, which, (according to this 
system,) are thus vividly understood by the spiritual Christian, it is 
that of the necessity of renouncing our own righteousness for the 
righteousness provided by our Lord and Saviour; which is considered, 

N— c 33 


not as an elementary and simple principle (as it really is,) but as rarely 
and hardly acknowledged by any man, especially repugnant to a 
certain (so-called) pride of heart, which is supposed to run through 
the whole race of Adam, and to lead every man instinctively to insist 
even before God on the proper merit of his good deeds; so that, to 
trust in Christ, is not merely the work of the Holy Spirit, (as all good 
in our souls is,) but, is the especial and critical event wliich marks a 
man, as issuing from darkness, and sealed unto the privileges and 
inheritance of the sons of God. In other words, the doctrine of 
Justification by Faith, is accounted to be the one cardinal point of the 
Gospel; and, it is in vain to admit it readily as a clear Scripture truth 
(which it is,) and to attempt to go on unto perfection, the very wish 
to pass forward is interpreted into a wish to pass over it, and the test 
of believing it at all, is in fact to insist upon no doctrine but it. And 
this peculiar mode of inculcating that great doctrine of the Gospel, is 
a proof, (if that were wanting,) that the persons who adopt it, are not 
solicitous even about it on its own score merely, considered as (what 
is called,) a dogma, but as ascertaining and securing (as they hope), a 
certain state of heart. For, not content with the simple admission of 
it on the part of another, they proceed to divide faith into its kinds, 
living and dead, and to urge against him, that the Truth may be held 
in a carnal and unrenewed mind, and that men may speak without 
real feelings and convictions. Thus it is clear they do not contend for 
the doctrine of Justification, as a truth external to the mind, or article 
of faith, any more than for the doctrine of the Trinity. On the other 
hand, since they use this same language about dead and living faith, 
however exemplary the life and conduct be of the individual under 
their review, they as plainly show that the fruits of righteousness are 
in their system no evidence of spiritual-mindedness, but that a some- 
thing is to be sought for in the frame of mind itself All this is not 
stated at present by way of objection, but in order to settle accurately 
what they mean to maintain. So now we have the two views of 
doctrine clearly before us: — the ancient and universal teacliing of the 
Church, insisting on the Objects and fruits of faith, and considering 
the spiritual character of that faith itself sufficiently secured, if these 
are as they should be; and the method, now in esteem, attempting 
instead to secure directly and primarily that "mind of the Spirit," 
which may savingly receive the truths, and fulfil the obedience of the 
Gospel. That such a spiritual temper is indispensable, is agreed on all 



hands. The simple question is, whether it is formed by tlie Holy 
Spirit immediately acting upon our minds, or, on the other hand, by 
our own particular acts, (whether of faith or obedience,) prompted, 
guided, and prospered by Him; whether it is ascertainable otherwise 
than by its fruits; whether such frames of mind as are directly ascer- 
tainable and profess to be spiritual, are not in reality a delusion, a 
mere excitement, capricious feeling, fanatic fancy, and the like. — So 
much then by way of explanation. 

I. Now, in the first place, this modern system certainly does dis- 
parage the revealed doctrines of the Gospel, however its more 
moderate advocates may shrink from admitting it. Considering a 
certain state of heart to be the main thing to be aimed at, they 
avowedly make the Truth as it is in Jesus, the definite Creed of the 
Church, second in their teaching and profession. They will defend 
themselves indeed from the appearance of undervaluing it, by main- 
taining, that the existence of right religious affections is a security for 
sound views of doctrine. And this is abstractedly true; — but not true 
in the use they make of it: for they unhappily conceive that they can 
ascertain in each other the presence of these affections, and when they 
find men possessed of them, (as they conceive,) yet not altogether 
orthodox in their belief, then they relax a little, and argue that an 
admission of (what they call) the strict and teclinical niceties of 
doctrine, whether about the Consubstantiality of the Son or the 
Hypostatic Union, is scarcely part of the definition of a spiritual 
believer. In order to support this position, they lay it down as self- 
evident, that the main purpose of revealed doctrine is to effect the 
heart, — that that which docs not seem to afiect it, does not affect it, 
— that what does not affect it is unnecessary, — and that the circum- 
stance that this or that person's heart seems rightly affected, is a 
sufficient warrant that such Articles as he may happen to reject may 
be universally rejected, or at least are only accidentally important. 
Such principles, when once become fnniliar to the mind, induce a 
certain disproportionate attention to the doctrines connected with the 
work of Christ, in comparison with those which relate to His Person, 
from their more immediately interesting and exciting character; and 
carry on the more speculative and philosophical class to view the 
Atonement and Sanctification as the essence of the Gospel, and to 
advocate them in the place of those "Heavenly Things" altogether, 
which they have already assailed, as regards the ecclesiastical expression 



of them; and of which they now openly complain as mysteries 
for bondsmen, not Gospel consolations. The last and most miserable 
stage of tliis false wisdom, is to deny that in matters of doctrine there 
is any one sense of Scripture such, that it is true and all others false; to 
make the Gospel of Truth (so far) a revelation of words and a dead 
letter; to consider that the Holy Spirit speaks merely of divine opera- 
tions, not of Persons; and that that is truth to each, which each man 
thinks to be true, so that one man may say that Christ is God, another 
deny His pre-existence, yet each have received the Truth according 
to the peculiar constitution of his own mind, the Scripture doctrine 
having no real independent substantive meaning. Thus the system 
under consideration tends legitimately to obhtcrate the great Objects 
brought to light in the Gospel, and to darken what I called yesterday 
the eye of faith; to throw us back into the vagueness of Heathenism, 
when men only felt after the Divine Presence; and thus to frustrate 
the design of Christ's incarnation so far as it is a manifestation of the 
Unseen Creator. 

2. On the other hand, the necessity of obedience in order to salva- 
tion does not suffer less from the upholders of the modern system than 
the articles of the Creed. They argue, and truly, that if faith is living, 
works must follow; but mistaking a following in order of succession for 
a following in order of time, they conclude that faith ever comes first, 
and works afterwards; and therefore, that faith must first be secured, 
and that, by some means in which works have no share. Thus, instead 
of viewing works as the concomitant development and evidence, and 
instrumental cause of faith, they lay all the stress upon the direct 
creation, in their minds, of faith and spiritual-mindedness, which they 
consider to consist in certain emotions and desires, because they can 
form abstractedly no better or truer notion of those quahties. Accord- 
ingly, instead of being "careful to maintain good works," they take 
it for granted, that since they have attained faith (as they consider,) 
works will follow without their trouble as a matter of course. Thus 
the wise are taken in their own craftiness; they attempt to reason, and 
are overcome by sophisms. Had they kept to the Inspired Record, 
their way would have been clear; and, considering the serious 
exhortations to keeping God's commandments, widi which all Scrip- 
ture abounds, from Genesis to the Apocalypse, is it not a very grave 
question which the most charitable among Churchmen must put to 
himself, whether these random expounders of the Blessed Gospel are 



not risking a participation in the woe denounced against those who 
preach any other doctrine besides that dehvered unto us, or who "take 
away from the words of the Book" of revealed Truth? 

3. But still more evidently do they fall into this last imputation, 
when we consider how they are obliged to treat the Sacred Volume 
altogether, in order to support the system they have adopted. Is it too 
much to say that, instead of attempting to harmonize Scripture with 
Scripture, much less referring to Antiquity to enable them to do so, 
they either drop altogether, or explain away whole portions of the 
Bible, and those most sacred ones? How does the authority of the 
Psalms stand with their opinions, except at best by a forced figurative 
interpretation? And our Lord's discourses in the Gospels, especially 
the Sermon on the Mount, are they not virtually considered as chiefly 
important to the persons immediately addressed, and of inferior 
instructiveness to us, now that the Spirit (as it is profanely said) is 
come? In short, is not the rich and varied Revelation of our merciful 
Lord practically reduced to a few chapters of St. Paul's Epistles, 
whether rightly (as they maintain) or (as we would say) perversely 
understood? If then the Romanists have added to the word of God, 
is it not undeniable that there is a school of religionists among us who 
have taken from it? 

4. I would remark, that the immediate tendency of these opinions 
is to undervalue ordinances as well as doctrines. The same argument 
evidently appHes; for, if the renewed state of heart is (as it is supposed) 
attained, what matter whether Sacraments have or have not been 
administered? The notion of invisible grace and invisible privileges 
is, on this supposition, altogether superseded; that of communion 
with Christ limited to the mere exercise of the affections in prayer and 
meditation, to sensible effects; and he who considers he has already 
gained this one essential gift of grace (as he calls it,) may plausibly 
inquire, after the fashion of the day, why he need wait upon ordin- 
ances which he has anticipated in his religious attainments, — means to 
an end, which he has not to seek, even if they be not outward forms 
altogether, — and whether Christ will not accept at the last day all 
who believe, without inquiring if they were members of the Cluirch, 
or were confirmed, or were baptized, or received the blessing of mere 
men who are "earthen vessels." 

5. The foregoing remarks go to show the utterly uncvangelical 
character of the system in question; unevangelic in the full sense of 



the word, whether by the Gospel be meant the inspired document of 
it, or the doctrines brought to hght through it, or the Sacramental 
Institutions which are the gift of it, or the theology which interprets 
it, or the Covenant which is the basis of it. A few words shall now 
be added, to show the inherent mischief of the system as such; which 
I conceive to arise from its necessarily involving a continual self- 
contemplation and reference to self in all departments of conduct. He 
who auns at attaining sound doctrine or right practice, more or less 
looks out of himself; whereas, in labouring after a certain frame of 
mind, there is an habitual reflex action of the mind upon itself That 
this is really involved in the modern system, is evident from the very 
doctrine principally insisted on by it; for, as if it were not enough for 
a man to look up simply to Christ for salvation, it is declared to be 
necessary that he should be able to recognise this in himself, that he 
should defme his own state of mind, confess he is justified by faith 
alone, and explain what is meant by that confession. Now, the truest 
obedience is indisputably that, which is done from love of God, with- 
out narrowly measuring the magnitude or nature of the sacrifice in- 
volved in it. He who has learned to give names to his thoughts and 
deeds, to appraise them as if for the market, to attach to each its due 
measure of commendation or usefulness, will soon involuntarily cor- 
rupt his motives by pride or selfishness. A sort of self-approbation will 
insinuate itself into his mind; so subtle as not at once to be recognised 
by himself, — an habitual quiet self-esteem, leading him to prefer his 
own views to those of others, and a secret, if not avowed persuasion, 
that he is in a different state from the generality of those around him. 
This is an evil of the religious journals which persons keep, though 
of course not a necessary one; nay, of such compositions as Ministerial 
teaching involves. They lead in some respect or other to a contempla- 
tion of self Moreover, as to religious journals, however useful they 
may be, at the same time, I believe persons find great difficulty, while 
recording their feelings, in banishing the thought that one day these 
good feelings will be known to the world, and are thus insensibly led 
to modify and prepare their language as if for a representation. 
Seldom indeed is any one in the practice of contemplating his better 
thoughts, without proceeding to display them to others; and hence it 
is, that it is so easy to discover a vain man. When this is encouraged 
in the sacred province of reUgion, it produces a certain unnatural 
solemnity of mamier, arising from a wish to be, nay, to appear 



Spiritual, which is at once very painful to beholders, and surely quite 
at variance with our Saviour's rule of anointing our head and washing 
our face, even when we are most self-abased in heart. Another mis- 
chief arising from this self-contemplation is the peculiar kind of scl- 
fisliness (if I may use so harsh a term,) which it will be found to foster. 
They who make self instead of their Maker the great object of their 
contemplation, will naturally exalt themselves. Without denying 
that the glory of God is the great end to which all things arc to be 
referred, they will be led to connect indissolubly His glory with their 
own certainty of salvation; and this partly accounts for its being so 
common to fuid rigid predestinarian views, and the exclusive main- 
tenance of justification by Faith in the same persons. And for the 
same reason, the Scripture doctrines relative to the Church and its 
offices will be unpalatable to such rehgionists; nothing being so 
irreconcilable as the system which makes a man's thoughts centre 
on himself, and that which directs them to a fountain of grace and 
truth, on which God has made him dependent. 

And as self-confidence and spiritual pride on the legitimate results 
of these opinions in one set of persons, so in another they lead to a 
feverish anxiety about their religious state and prospects, and fears 
lest they are under the reprobation of their All-merciful Saviour. It 
need scarcely be said that a contemplation of self is a frequent attend- 
ant, and a frequent precursor of a deranged state of the mental 

To conclude. — It must not be supposed from the foregoing re- 
marks, that I am imputing all the consequences to every one who 
holds the main doctrine from which they legitimately follow. Many 
men zealously maintain principles which they never follow out in 
their own minds, or after a time silently discard, except as fir as 
words go; but which are sure to receive a full dcvelopcment in the 
history of any school or party of men which adopts them. Considered 
thus, as the characteristics of a school, the principles in question are 
doubtless antichristian; for they destroy all positive doctrine, all 
ordinances, all good works, they foster pride, invite li)pocris)-, dis- 
courage the weak, and deceive most fatally, while they profess to be 
the especial antidotes to self-deception. We have seen these effects of 
them two centuries since in the history of the English Branch of the 
Church; for what we know, a more fearful triumph is still in store for 
them. But, however that may be, let not the watchmen of Jerusalem 



fail to give timely warning of the approaching enemy, or to acquit 
themselves of all cowardice or comphance as regards it. Let them 
prefer the Old Commandment, as it has been from the beginning, to 
any novelties of man; recollecting Christ's words, "Blessed is he that 
watcheth, and keepeth his garments, lest he walk naked, and they see 
his shame ^" 

^ Rev. xvi. 15. 


The Danger of Accomplishments 


ExoD. xxxi. 6. 

In the hearts of all that arc wisc-hcartcd, I have put wisdom. 

St. Luke differed from liis fellow-evangelists and disciples in having 
received the advantages of (what is called) a liberal education. In this 
respect he resembled St. Paul, who, with equal accomplishments, 
appears to have possessed even more learning. St. Luke is said to have 
been a native of Antioch, a city celebrated for the refined habits and 
cultivated intellect of its inhabitants; and his profession was that of a 
physician or surgeon, which of itself evidences him to have been in 
education something above the generahty of men. This is confirmed 
by the character of his writings, which are superior in composition to 
any part of the New Testament, excepting some of St. Paul's Epistles. 

There are persons who doubt whether what are called "accom- 
plishments," (whether in hterature or the fine arts,) can be consistent 
with deep and practical seriousness of mind. They think that attention 
to these argues a lightness of mind, and at least, takes up time which 
might be better employed; and, I confess, that at first sight, they seem 
to be able to say much in defence of their opinion. Yet, notwith- 
standing, St, Luke and St. Paul were accomplished men, and evidcntl)' 
took pleasure in their accomplishments. 

I am not speaking of human learning; this also many men think 
inconsistent with simple uncorrupted faith. They suppose that learn- 
ing must make a man proud. This is of course a great mistake; but 
of it I am not speaking, but of an over-jealousy of mental acconipUsli- 
waits, the elegant arts and studies, such as poetry, literary composition, 
painting, and the like; v/hich are considered, (not indeed to make a 
man proud, but) to make him trifliii{y. Of this opinion, how fir it is 
true, and how far not true, I am going to speak; being led to the 



consideration of it by the known fact, that St. Luke was a poHshed 
writer, and yet an Evangehst. 

Now, that the acconiphshnients (I speak of) have a tcudcticy to make 
us trifling and unmanly, and therefore, are to be viewed by each of 
us with suspicion as far as regards himself, I am ready to admit. I 
allow, that in matter of fact, refmement and luxury, elegance and 
effeminacy, go together, Antioch, the most polished, was the most 
voluptuous city of Asia. But the abuse of good tilings is no argument 
against the things themselves; mental cultivation may be a divine gift, 
though it is abused. All God's gifts are perverted by man; health, 
strength, intellectual power, are all turned by sinners to bad purposes, 
yet they are not evil in themselves: therefore, an acquaintance with 
the elegant arts may be a gift and a good, and intended to be an 
instrument of God's glory, though numbers who have it are rendered 
thereby indolent, luxurious, and feeble-minded. — But the account of 
the building of the Tabernacle in the wilderness, from which the text 
is taken, is decisive on this point. It is too long to read to you, but a 
few verses will remind you of the nature of it. "Thou shalt speak 
unto all that are wise-hearted, whom I have filled with the Spirit of 
wisdom, that they may make Aaron's garments to consecrate him, 
that he may minister unto Me in the priest's office." "See I have 
called by name Bezaleel . . . and have filled him with the Spirit of 
God, in wisdom, and in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all 
maimer of workmansliip, to devise cunning works, to work in gold, 
and in silver, and in brass, and in cutting of stones, to set them, and in 
carving of timber, to work all manner of workmanship." "Take ye 
from among you an offering unto the Lord; whosoever is of a wiUing 
heart let him bring it, an offering of the Lord, gold, and silver, and 
brass, and blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fme linen, and goats' hair, 
and rams' skins dyed red, and badgers' slcins, and shittim wood, and 
oil for the light, and spices for anointing oil, and for the sweet incense, 
and onyx stones, and stones to be set for the ephod, and for the breast- 
plate. And every wise-hearted among you shall come and make all 
that the Lord hath commanded ^." 

How then is it, that what in itself is of so excellent, and, (I may say,) 
divine a nature, is yet so commonly perverted? I proceed, therefore, 
to state what is the danger, as it appears to me, of being accompHshed, 
with a view to answer this question. 

^ Exod. xxviii. 3. xxxi. 2-5. xxxv. 5-10. 


Now, the danger of an elegant and polite education, is, that it 
separates feeling and acting; it teaches us to think, speak, and be 
affected aright, without forcing us to practice what is right. I will 
take an illustration of this, though somewhat a familiar one, from the 
effect produced upon the mind by reading what is commonly called 
a romance or novel, which comes under the description of polite 
literature of which I am speaking. Such works contain many good 
sentiments; (I am talking of the better sort of them,) characters too 
are introduced, virtuous, noble, patient under suffering, and triumph- 
ing at length over misfortune. The great truths of religion are upheld 
(we will say) and enforced; and our affections excited and interested 
in what is good and true. But it is all fiction; it does not exist out of 
a book, which contains the begmning and end of it. Wc have nothing 
to do; we read, are affected, softened or roused, and that is all; we cool 
again, — nothing comes of it. Now observe the effect of this. God 
has made us feel in order that we may go on to act in consequence of 
feeling; if then we allow our feelings to be excited without acting 
upon them, we do mischief to the moral system within us, just as we 
might spoil a watch, or other piece of mechanism, by playing with the 
wheels of it. We weaken its springs, and they cease to act truly. 
Accordingly, when we have got into the habit of amusing ourselves 
with these works of fiction, we come at length to feel the excitement 
without the slightest thought or tendency to act upon it; and, since 
it is very difficult to begin any duty without some emotion or other, 
(i.e. on mere principles of dry reasoning,) a grave question arises, 
how, after destroying the connection between feeling and acting, how 
shall we get outsclves to act when circumstances make it our duty to 
do so? For instance: we will say we have read again and again, of the 
heroism of facing danger, and we have glowed with the thought of 
its nobleness. We have felt how great it is to bear pain, and submit 
to indignities, rather than wound our conscience; and all this, again 
and again, when we had no opportunity of carrying our good feel- 
ings into practice. Now, suppose at length wc actually come into 
trial, and let us say, our feelings become roused, (as often before) at 
the thought of boldly resisting temptations to cowardice, shall we 
therefore, do our duty, quitting ourselves like men? rather, wc are 
likely to talk loudly, and then run from the danger. Why? rather let 
us ask, why not"? what is to keep us from )delding? Because we feci 
aright? nay, we have again and again felt aright, and thought aright, 



without accustoming ourselves to act aright, and (though there was 
an original connexion in our minds between feeling and acting,) 
there is none now; the wires (so to say) within us are loosened and 

And what is here introduced in the case of fortitude is true in all 
cases of duty. The refmement which hterature gives, is that of think- 
ing, feeling, knowing, and speaking, right, not of acting right; and 
thus, while it makes the manners amiable, and the conversation 
decorous and agreeable, it has no tendency to make the conduct, the 
practice of the man, virtuous. 

Observe, I have supposed the works of fiction, I speak of, to 
inculcate right sentiments; though such works, (play-books for 
example,) are often vicious and immoral. But, even at best, supposing 
them well principled, still after all, at best, they are, I say, dangerous, 
in themselves; — that is, if we allow refmement to stand in the place 
of hardy, rough-handed obedience. It follows, that I am much 
opposed to certain religious novels, which some persons think so use- 
ful: that they sometimes do good, I am far from denying; — but they 
do more harm than good. They do harm on the whole; they lead 
men to cultivate the religious affections separate from religious 
practice. And here I might speak of that entire rehgious system, (mis- 
called rehgious,) which makes Christian faith consist, not in the 
honest and plain practice of what is right, but in the luxury of excited 
religious feeling, in a mere meditating on our Blessed Lord, and 
dwelling as in a reverie on what He has done for us; — for such 
indolent contemplation will no more sanctif}^ a man in fact, than read- 
ing a poem, or listening to a chant or psalm-tune. 

The case is the same with the arts last alluded to, poetry and music. 
They are especially likely to make us unmanly, as exciting emotions 
without ensuring correspondent practice, and so destroying the con- 
nexion between feeling and acting; for I define unman lincss to be the 
inability to do with ourselves what we wish, — the saying fine things, 
and yet lying slothfully on our couch, as if wc could not get up, 
though wc ever so much wished it. 

And here I must notice something further in elegant accomplish- 
ments, which goes to make us ovcr-refincd and fastidious, and filscly 
delicate. In books, every thing is made beautiful in its way. Pictures 
are drawn of complete virtue; little is said about failures, and httle or 
nothing of the drudgery of ordinary, every-day obedience, wliich is 



neither poetical nor interesting. True faith teaches us to do number- 
less disagreeable things for Christ's sake, to bear petty annoyances, 
which we fmd written down in no book. In most books Christian 
conduct is made grand, elevated, and splendid; so that any one, who 
only knows of true religion from books, and not from actual 
endeavours to be rehgious, is sure to be offended at religion when he 
actually comes upon it, from the rougliness and humbleness of his 
duties, and his necessary deficiencies in doing them. It is beautiful in 
a picture to wash the disciples' feet; but the sands of the real desert 
have no comeliness in them to compensate for the servile nature of 
the occupation. 

And further still, it must be observed, that the art of composing, 
which is a chief accomplishment, has in itself a tendency to make us 
artificial and insincere. For to be ever attending to the fitness and 
propriety of our words, is (or at least there is the risk of its being) 
a kind of acting; and knowing what can be said on both sides of a 
subject, is a main step towards thinking the one side as good as the 
other. Hence men in ancient times, who cultivated polite literature, 
became what were called "Sophists;" that is, men who wrote 
elegantly, and talked eloquently, on any subject whatever, right or 
wrong. St. Luke perchance would have been such a Sophist, had he 
not been a Christian. 

Such are some of the dangers of elegant accomplishments; and they 
beset more or less all educated persons; and of these especially such 
females, as happen to have no very direct duties and are above the 
drudgery of common life, and hence are apt to become fastidious and 
fine, — to love a luxurious ease, and to amuse themselves in more 
elegant pursuits, the while they admire and profess what is religious 
and virtuous, and think that they really possess the character of mind 
which they esteem. 

With these thoughts before us, it is necessary to look back to the 
Scripture instances which I began by referring to, to keep from con- 
sidering accomplishments positively dangerous, and un^^'orth^' a 
Christian. But St. Luke and St. Paul show us, that wc ma^' be sturdy 
workers in the Lord's service, and bear our cross manfully, though we 
be adorned with all the learning of the Egyptians, or rather, that the 
resources of literature, and the graces of a cultivated mind, may be 
made both a lawful source of enjoyment to the possessor, and a 
means of introducing and recommending the Truth to others; while 



the history of the Tabernacle shows that all the cunning arts, and 
precious possessions of tliis world, may be consecrated to a rehgious 
service. — I conclude then with the following cautions, to wliich the 
foregoing remarks lead. First, we must avoid giving too much time 
to lighter occupations; and next, we must never allow ourselves to 
read works of fiction, or poetry, or to interest ourselves in the fine 
arts for the mere sake of the things themselves: but keep in mind all 
along that we are Christians and accountable beings, who have fixed 
principles of right and wrong, by wliich all things arc to be tried, and 
religious habits to be matured in them, towards which all tilings are 
to be made subservient. Nothing is more common among accom- 
plished people, than the habit of reading books so entirely for reading 
sake, as to praise and blame the actions and persons described in a 
random way, according to their fancy, not considering whether they 
are really good or bad according to the standard of moral truth. I 
would not be austere; but when tliis is done habitually, surely it is 
dangerous. Such too is the abuse of poetical talent, that sacred gift. 
Nothing is more common than to fall into the practice of uttering fine 
sentiments, particularly in letter-writing, as a matter of course, or a 
kind of elegant display. Nothing more common in singing than to 
use words with a light meaning, or a bad one. All these tilings are 
hurtful to seriousness of character. It is for this reason (to put aside 
others) that the profession of stage-players, and again of orators, is a 
dangerous one. They learn to say good things, and to excite in them- 
selves vehement feelings, about nothing at all. If we are in earnest, 
we shall let nothing lightly pass by, which may do us good; nor shall 
we dare to trifle with such sacred subjects as morality and religious 
duty. We shall apply all we read to ourselves; and this almost without 
intending to do so, from the mere sincerity and honesty of our desire 
to please God, We shall be suspicious of all such good thoughts and 
wishes, and we shall shrink from all such cxliibition of our principles 
as falls short of action. We shall aim at doing right, and so glorifying 
our Father, and shall exhort and constrain others to do so also; but as 
for talking on the appropriate subjects of religious meditation, and 
trying to show piety, and to excite corresponding feelings in another, 
even though our nearest friend, far from doing tliis, we shall account 
it a snare and a mischief Yet this is what many persons (as I have 
already said) consider the highest part of religion, and call it spiritual 
conversation, the test of a spiritual mind; whereas, putting aside the 



incipient and occasional hypocrisy, and again the immodesty of it, I 
call all formal and intentional expression of religious emotions, all 
studied passionate discourse, dissipation, — dissipation tlie same in 
nature, though different in subject, as what is commonly so called; for 
it is a drain and a waste of our religious and moral strength, a general 
weakening of our spiritual powers (as I have already shown) and all 
for what? for the pleasure of the immediate excitement. Who can 
deny this religious disorder is a parallel case to that of the sensuahst? 
Nay, not merely a parallel, but precisely the case of those from whom 
the religionists in question think themselves very far removed, of the 
fashionable world I mean, who read works of fiction, frequent the 
public shows, are ever on the watch for novelties, and affect a pride of 
mamiers and a "mincing ^" deportment, and are ready with all kinds 
of good thoughts and keen emotions on all occasions. 

Of all such as abuse the decencies and elegancies of moral truth into 
a means of luxurious enjoyment, what would a prophet of God say? 
Hear the words of the holy Ezekiel, that stern rough man of God, a 
true saint in the midst of a self-indulgent high-professing people. 
"Thou son of man, the children of thy people still are talking against 
thee by the walls and in the doors of the houses, and speak one to 
another, every one to his brother, saying. Come, I pray you, and hear 
what is the word that cometh forth from the Lord. And they come 
unto thee as the people cometh, and they sit before thee as My people, 
and they hear thy words, but they will not do them; for with their 
mouth they show much love, but their heart goeth after their co vetous- 
ness. And lo, thou art unto them as a very lovely song of one that 
hath a pleasant voice, and can play well on an instrument: for they 
hear thy words, but they do them not 2." 

Or, consider St. Paul's words; which are still more impressive, be- 
cause he was himself a man of learning and accomplishments, and took 
pleasure, in due place, in the employments to wliich these gave rise. 

"Preach the word, be instant in season, out of season; reprove, 
rebuke, exhort, with all long-suficring and doctrine. For the time will 
come when they will not endure sound doctrine, but after their own 
lusts shall they heap to themselves teachers, having itching cars. And 
they shall turn away their ears from the Truth, and shall be turned 
unto fables." "Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, 
be strong ^." 

^ Is. iii. 16. 2 Ezck. xxxiii. 30-32. ^ 2 Tim. iv. 2-4. i Cor. xvi. 13 


christian Nobleness 


John xiv. i8, 19. 

"I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you. Yet a little while, and 
the world seeth Me no more; but ye see Me." 

When our Saviour was leaving His disciples, He told them that He 
would soon return to them, that their sorrow might be turned into 
joy. He was going away, yet they were to see Him, though the world 
saw Him not; for they were to be blessed with the presence of Him 
who was equal to Him and one with Him, and would unite them to 
Him, the Third Person in the Eternal Trinity, God the Holy Ghost. 

He said that He was going away, and yet was coming again; for the 
Holy Ghost came, and His coming was really the coming of Christ. 
Christ said that it was to be but a short interval between His departure 
and His return; and such it was, ten days. He went on Holy Thurs- 
day; He returns on the day of Pentecost. 

But, though our Lord and Saviour sent His Holy Spirit to be with 
us on His going away, still there was a difference between the Spirit's 
office, and that wliich He Himself graciously fulfilled towards His 
disciples in the days of His flesh; for their wants were not the same as 
before, Christ, while He was with them, had no occasion to console 
them under affliction, to stand by them in trial as their Paraclete; for 
trial and affliction did not visit them while He was with them; but on 
the other hand, the Holy Spirit especially came to give them joy in 
tribulation. Again, He came to teach them fully, what our Lord had 
but in part revealed; and hence too it followed, that the consolation 
which the Spirit vouchsafed differed from that which they had 
received from Christ, just as the encouragements and rewards 
bestowed upon children, are far other than those wliich soothe and 
stimulate grown men in arduous duties. And there were, moreover, 
other circumstances, much to be dwelt upon, which altered the state 



of the Apostles' feelings and views, after their Lord had died and 
risen again, and wliich made them need a consolation different from 
that which His bodily presence gave them. There is no reason for 
supposing that, while He was with them, they apprehended the 
awful truth, diatHe is very God in our nature. "I am among you," He 
said, "as He that serveth." But on His resurrection He revealed tl^.e 
mystery. St. Thomas adored Him in the words — "My Lord and my 
God;" and He forthwith withdrew Himself from them, not living 
in their sight as heretofore, and soon ascending into heaven. It is 
plain, that, after such a revelation, the Apostles could not have 
returned to their easy converse with Him, even had He offered it. 
What had been, could not be again; their state of childhood, ere "their 
eyes were opened and they knew Him." Of necessity then, since 
they could not endure to see God and live, did He "vanish out of their 
sight." And if, according to His promise. He was to come to them 
again, it must be after a new manner, and with a higher consolation. 
Accordingly, when the Spirit of Christ descended at the promised 
season, "He bowed the heavens and came down, and it was dark under 
His feet." He came invisibly, and invisibly hath He dwelt in the 
Church ever since. He does not manifest His glory to mortal sense. 
We do not hear the whisperings of His still small voice, nor do our 
hearts burn within us in token of Llis Presence. The truth is, we 
Christians know too much concerning Him to endure the open 
manifestation of His greatness. It is in mercy that He liides Himself 
from those who would be overcome by the sensible touch of the 
Almighty Hand. Still it is plain that, after all, in spite of this con- 
siderate regard for our frailness, His visitation camiot but be awful 
anyhow, to creatures who know what we know, and are what we 
are. This cannot be avoided; the very secrecy of His coming has its 
solemnity: is it not fearful to wait for Him, appalling to receive Him, 
a burden to have held communion with Him? and though we joy, as 
well we may, yet we cannot joy with the light hearts of children, who 
live by sight, but with the thoughtful gladness of grown men, who 
are anxious, who feel difficulties, who look out for dangers, who, in 
St. John's words, know both that "the whole world lieth in wicked- 
ness," and "diat the Son of God is come, and hath given us an under- 
standing that we may know Him that is true ^," and discover His real 
majesty and power. 

^ I John V. 19, 20. 
N — D 49 


And hence, as we might expect, the Apostles' fellowsliip with 
Christ through the Spirit, after His ascension, was very different from 
their fellowship with Him on earth. Though they waited continually 
on Him for His peace, "not as the world giveth," and continually 
received it; yet, the history shows us, they feared the gift while they 
rejoiced in it. Consider, too, our Saviour's own most overpowering 
words, to be fulfilled in the coming of the Comforter, — "Whosoever 
speaketh a word against the Son of man, it shall be forgiven him: but 
whosoever speaketh against the Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven 
him." Does not this Scripture imply thus much, whatever else it 
implies, — that our ascended Saviour, who is on God's right hand, and 
sends down from thence God's Spirit, is to be feared greatly, even 
amid His gracious consolations? Hence St. Paul says, "Work out your 
own salvation with fear and trembling;" and again, "Grieve not the 
Holy Spirit of God;" and again, "Know ye not that ye are the temple 
of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you? If any man defile 
the temple of God, him will God destroy ^." 

This great truth is impressed upon the whole course of that sacred 
fellowship with Christ, which the Church provides for her cliildren; 
in proportion as it is more high and gracious than that first intercourse, 
which the Apostles enjoyed, so is it also more awful. When He had 
once ascended, henceforth for unstudied speech there were solemn 
rites; for familiar attendance there were mysterious ministerings; for 
questionings at will there was silent obedience; for sitting at table 
there was bowing in adoration; for eating and drinking there was 
fasting and watcliing. He who had taken his Lord and rebuked Him, 
dared not speak to Him after His resurrection, when He saw and 
knew Him. He who had lain in His bosom at supper, fell at His feet 
as dead. Such was the vision of the glorified Saviour of man, return- 
ing to His redeemed in the power of the Spirit, with a Presence more 
pervading because more intimate, and more real because more hidden. 
And as the mamier of His coming was new, so was His gift. It was 
peace, but a new peace, "not as the world giveth;" not the exultation 
of the young, light-hearted, and simple, easily created, easily lost; but a 
serious, sober, lasting comfort, full of reverence, deep in contemplation. 

And hence the keener, the more rapturous are the feelings of the 
Christian, the more ardent his aspirations, the more glorious his 
visions; so much the graver, the more subdued, the more serene must 
^ Matt. xii. 32. Phil. ii. 12. Eph, iv. 30. i Cor. iii. 16, 17. 



be his worship and his confession. Who was so intoxicated with 
Divine love as St. John? who so overcharged with the Spirit? yet 
what language can be calmer than when He says, *'13ehold what 
manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we should be 

called the sons of God! When He shall appear, we shall be like 

Him, for we shall see Him as He is ^?" And who was possessed with 
a more burning zeal than St. Paul? yet observe his injunction to the 
spiritually-gifted Corinthians; "Let all things be done unto edifying; 
the spirits of the prophets are subject to the prophets; for God is not 
the author of confusion, but of peace. . . . Let all things be done 
decently and in order ^." And in like manner, in anticipation of 
Gospel perfection, we read of the impressive gravity and saintly bear- 
ing of Samuel and his prophetic company, when Saul came to Ramah; 
while Saul's extravagance when he came within the Divine influence, 
prefigures to us the wayward and unpeaceful behaviour of heretical 
sects in every age, who, in spite of whatever tokens they may bear of 
the presence of a good spirit among them, yet, whether they preach 
or pray, are full of tumult and violence, and cause wild alarm or fierce 
ecstasy, and even strange affections of body, convulsions and cries, in 
their converts or hearers. 

But if gravity and sobriety were seen even in that time, when the 
heirs of promise were under age, as children submitted to a school- 
master, and when holy David "danced before the Lord with all his 
might, leaping and dancing before the Lord ^;" much more is the 
temper of the Christian Church high and heavenly, noble, majestic, 
calm, and untroubled. For it is the state of heart imparted by the 
Divine Paraclete, who stands by us to strengthen us and raise our 
stature, and, as it were, to straighten our limbs, and to provide us with 
the wings of Angels, wherewith to mount heavenward; by Him who 
takes possession of us, and dwells in us, and makes us His agents and 
instruments, nay, in a measure. His confidants and counsellors, till 
we "comprehend the breadth and length, and depth and height, and 
know the love of Christ, which passeth knowledge, that we may be 
filled with all the fulness of God '^." Religious men, knowing what 
great tilings have been done for them, cannot but grow greater in 
mind in consequence. We know how power and responsibility 
change men in matters of this world. They become more serious, 

^ I John iii. i, 2. '^ i Cor. xiv. 26, 32, 33, 40. 

^ 2 Sam. vi. 14, 16. ^ Eph. iii. 18, 19. 



more vigilant, more circumspect, more practical, more decisive; tliey 
fear to commit mistakes, yet they dare more, because they have a 
consciousness of liberty and of power, and an opportunity for great 
successes. And thus the Christian, even in the way of nature, without 
speaking of the influence of heavenly grace upon him, cannot but 
change from the state of children to that of men, when he under- 
stands liis own privileges. The more he knows and fears the gift 
committed to him, so much the more reverent is he towards liimself, 
as being put in charge with it. 

Consider the language in which our Lord and His Apostles describe 
the gift — "If a man love Me," says Christ, shortly after the text, "He 
will keep My words, and My Father v/ill love him, and We will come 
unto him, and make Our abode with him." Again, in St. Paul's 
words, "Ye are the temple of the Living God; as God hath said, I will 
dwell in them and walk in them." Again, "Know ye not that your 
body is the temple of the Holy Ghost, which is in you, wliich ye have 
of God, and ye are not your own?" And St. Jolin, "Whosoever shall 
confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him and he in 
God ■•■." Is it not plain, that such a doctrine as is here declared will 
exceedingly raise the Christian above liimself, and, without impairing, 
nay, even while increasing liis humility, will make him feel all tilings 
of earth as little, and of small interest or account, and will preserve 
liim from the agitations of mind which they naturally occasion? 

Alas ! I am not speaking of ourselves in this degenerate time, when 
we seem well nigh to have forfeited the Gospel gifts through our sins; 
but, without thinking of ourselves, surely it is not without its use to 
consider the high Gospel tone of thought in itself He then, who 
believes that, in St. Paul's words, he is "joined to the Lord" as "one 
spirit," must necessarily prize liis own blessed condition, and look 
down upon all things, even the greatest tilings here below. "Ye are 
of God, little children," says the beloved disciple, "and have over- 
come them; because greater is He that is in you than he that is in the 
world. They are of the world; ... we are of God. He that knoweth 
God, heareth us; he that is not of God, heareth not us ^." Here is the 
anguage of saints; and hence it is that St. Paul, as feeling the majesty 
of that new nature which is imparted to us, addresses himself in a 
form of indignation to those who forget it. "What!" he says, "what! 
know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost?" As if 
^ 2 Cor. vi. 1 6. I Cor. vi. 19. i John iv. 15. ^ i John iv. 6. 



he said, "Can you be so mean-spirited and base-minded as to dis- 
honour yourselves in the devil's service? Should we not pity the man 
of birth, or station, or character, who degraded himself in the eyes of 
the v^orld, who forfeited his honour, broke his word, or played the 
coward? And shall not we, from mere sense of propriety, be ashamed 
to defile our spiritual purity, the royal blood of the second Adam, with 
deeds of darkness? Let us leave it to the hosts of evil spirits, to the 
haters of Christ, to eat the dust of the earth all the days of their life. 
Cursed are they above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; 
grovelling shall they go, till they come to their end and perish. J5ut 
for Christians, it is theirs to walk in the hght, as children of the light, 
and lift up their hearts, as looking out for Him who went away, that 
He might return." 

For the same reason. Christians are called upon to think little of the 
ordinary objects which men pursue, wealth, luxury, distinction, 
popularity, and power. It was this negligence about the world, which 
brought upon them in primitive times the reproach of being indolent. 
Their heathen enemies spoke truly; indolent and indifferent they were 
about temporal matters. If the goods of this world came in their way, 
they were not bound to decline them; nor would they forbid others 
in the religious use of them; but they thought them vanities, the toys 
of children, which serious men let drop. Nay, St. Paul betrays the 
same feehng as regards our temporal callings and states generally. 
After discoursing about them, suddenly he breaks off as if impatient 
of the multitude of words; "But this I say, brethren," he exclaims, 
"the time is short." 

Hence, too, the troubles of life gradually aftcct the Christian less 
and less, as his view of his own real blessedness, under the Dispensa- 
tion of the Spirit, grows upon him; and even thougli persecuted, to 
take an extreme case, he knows well that, through God's inward 
presence, he is greater than those who for the time have power over 
him, as Martyrs and Confessors have often shown. 

And in like mamier, he will be calm and collected under all cir- 
cumstances; he will make light of injuries, and forget them from 
mere contempt of them. He will be undaunted, as fearing God more 
than man; he will be firm in faith and consistent, as "seeing Him that 
is invisible;" not impatient, who has no sclfwill; not soon disap- 
pointed, who has no hopes; not anxious, who has no fears; nor 
dazzled, who has no ambition; nor bribed, who has no desires. 



And now, further, let it be observed, on the other hand, that all this 
greatness of mind which I have been describing, which in other 
religious systems degenerates into pride, is iii the Gospel compatible, 
nay rather intimately comiected, with the deepest humility. It is true, 
that so great are the Christian privileges, there is serious danger lest 
common men should be puffed up by them; but tliis will be when 
persons take them to themselves who have no right to them. Did I 
not begin with saying, that the Dispensation of the Spirit is one of 
awe, of "reverence and godly fear?" Surely, then, they who pride 
themselves on the gift, have forgotten the very elements of the 
Gospel of Christ. They have forgotten that the gift is not only "a 
saviour of life unto hfe," but "of death unto death;" that it is possible 
to "do despite unto the Spirit of grace;" and that "it is impossible for 
those who were once enlightened, if they shall fall away, to renew 
them again unto repentance ^." Again; if they do aught well, "what 
have they which they have not received?" and how know they but 
He, by whom their souls live, will withdraw that life, nay will to a 
certainty withdraw it, if they take that glory to themselves which is 
His? Why was it that Herod was smitten by the Angel? O awful 
instance of the jealousy of God! "The people gave a shout, saying, It 
is the voice of a god, and not of a man; and immediately the Angel 
of the Lord smote him, because he gave not God the glory 2." He 
was smitten immediately; suddenly and utterly does our strength, and 
our holiness, and our blessedness, and our influence, depart from us, 
like a lamp that expires, or a weight that falls, as soon as we rest in 
them, and pride ourselves in them, instead of referring them to the 
Giver. God keep us in His mercy from this sin! St. Paul shows us 
how we should feel about God's gifts, and how to boast without 
pride, when he first says, "I laboured more abundantly than they all;" 
and then adds, "Yet not I, but the grace of God wliich was with me ^." 

Accordingly, the self-respect of the Christian is no personal and 
selfish feeling, but rather a principle of loyal devotion and reverence 
towards that Divine Master who condescends to visit him. He acts, 
not hastily, but under restraint and fearfully, as understanding that 
God's eye is over him, and God's hand upon him, and God's voice 
within him. He acts with the recollection that his Omniscient Guide 
is also liis future Judge; and that while He moves him. He is also 
noting down in His book how he answers to His godly motions. He 

^ Cor. ii. 16. Heb. x. 29, vi. 4-6. ^ ^cts xii. 22, 23. ^ i Cor. xv. 10. 



acts with a memory laden with past infirmity and sin, and a con- 
sciousness that he has much more to mourn over and repent of, in 
the years gone by, than to rejoice in. Yes, surely, he has many a 
secret wound to be healed; many a bruise to be tended; many a sore, 
like Lazarus; many a chronic infirmity; many a bad omen of perils 
to come. It is one thing, not to trust in the world; it is another thing 
to trust in one's self. 

But, alas ! I repeat it, how unreal in this age are such contemplations, 
when neither in ourselves nor in the Church around us have they a 
fulfilment! How is it fit to speak of thoughts and tempers which men 
of the day not only fail to cherish, but are eager to reprobate ! Yet 
perchance what is lost upon the many, may gain a hearing with the 
few; what is lost to-day, may be rc-callcd to-morrow; what is lost in 
fulness, may be retained in portions; what fails to convince, may 
excite misgivings; what fails with the heart, may create the wish. We 
must not grudge to speak, whether men will hear, or whether they 
will forbear; knowing that "he that observeth the wind shall not sow, 
and he that regardcth the clouds shall not reap ^." 

May we, one and all, set forward with this season, when the Spirit 
descended, that so v/e may grow in grace, and in the knowledge of 
our Lord and Saviour ! Let those who have had seasons of seriousness, 
lengthen them into a life; and let those who have made good resolves 
in Lent, not forget them in Easter-tide; and let those who have 
hitherto lived religiously, learn devotion; and let those who have 
hved ill good conscience, learn to live by faith; and let those who have 
made a good profession, aim at consistency; and let those who take 
pleasure in religious worsliip, aim at inward sanctity; and let those 
who have knowledoc, learn to love; and let those who meditate, 
forget not mortification. Let not this sacred season leave us as it 
found us; let it leave us, not as children, but as heirs and as citizens 
of the kingdom of heaven. For forty days have we been hearing "the 
things pertaining to the kingdom of God '^." The time may come, 
when we shall desire to see one of the days of the Son of man, and ?ee 
it not. Let us redeem the time while it is called to-day; "till we all 
come in the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of 
God, unto a perfect man, unto the measure of the stature of the ful- 
ness of Christ ^." 

^ Eccles. xi. 4. 2 ^(-(.5 [.^^ 3 £p|^^ -^y j^_ 


Implicit and Explicit Reason 

{Preached on St. Peter's Day, 1840) 

I Pet. iii. 15. 

"Sanctify the Lord God in your hearts; and be ready always to give an answer 
to every man that asketh you a reason of the hope that is in you, with meekness 
and fear." 

St. Peter's faith was one of his characteristic graces. It was ardent, 
keen, watcliful, and prompt. It dispensed with argument, calculation, 
dehberation, and delay, whenever it heard the voice of its Lord and 
Saviour: and it heard that voice even when its accents were low, or 
when it was unaided by the testimony of the other senses. When 
Christ appeared walking on the sea, and said, "It is I," Peter answered 
Him, and said, "Lord, if it be Thou, bid me come unto Thee on the 
water." When Christ asked His disciples who He was, "Simon Peter 
answered and said," as we read in the Gospel for this day, "Thou art 
the Christ, the Son of the Living God," and obtained our Lord's 
blessing for such clear and ready Faith. At another time, when Christ 
asked the Twelve whether they would leave Him as others did, St. 
Peter said, "Lord, to whom shall we go? Thou hast the M'-ords of 
eternal life; and we believe and are sure that Thou art the Christ, the 
Son of the Living God." And after the Resurrection, when he heard 
from St. John that it was Christ who stood on the shore, he sprang 
out of the boat in which he was fishing, and cast himself into the sea, 
in his impatience to come near Him. Other instances of his faith 
might be mentioned. If ever Faith forgot self, and was occupied with 
its Great Object, it was the faith of Peter. If in any one Faith appears 
in contrast with what we commonly understand by Reason, and with 
Evidence, it so appears in the instance of Peter. When he reasoned, 
it was at times when Faith was lacking. "When he saw the wind 
boisterous, he was afraid;" and Christ in consequence called him, 
"Thou of little faith." When He had asked, "Who touched Me?" 



Peter and others reasoned, "Master," said they, "the multitude tlirong 
Thee, and press Thee, and sayest Thou, Who touched Me?" And in 
hke manner, when Christ said that he should one day follow Him in 
the way of suffering, "Peter said unto Him, Lord, why cannot I follow 
Thee now?" — and we know how his faith gave way soon afterwards. 

2. Faith and Reason, then, stand in strong contrast in the history 
of Peter: yet it is Peter, and he not the fisherman of Galilee, but the 
inspired Apostle, who in the text gives us a precept wliich implies, in 
order to its due fulfdment, a careful exercise of our Reason, an 
exercise both upon Faith, considered as an act or habit of mind, and 
upon the Object of it. We are not only to "sanctify the Lord God in 
our hearts," not only to prepare a shrine witliin us in wliich our 
Saviour Christ may dwell, and where we may worship Him; but we 
are so to understand what we do, so to master our thoughts and 
feelings, so to recognize what we believe, and how we behevc, so to 
trace out our ideas and impressions, and to contemplate the issue of 
them, that we may be "ready always to give an answer to eucry man 
that asketh us an account of the hope that is in us." In these words, I 
conceive, we have a clear warrant, or rather an injunction, to cast 
our religion into the form of Creed and Evidences. 

3. It would seem, then, that though Faith is the characteristic of the 
Gospel, and Faith is the simple lifting of the mind to the Unseen God, 
without conscious reasoning or formal argument, still the mind may 
be allowably, nay, religiously engaged, in reflecting upon its own 
Faith; investigating the grounds and the Object of it, bringing it out 
into words, whether to defend, or recommend, or teach it to others. 
And St. Peter himself, in spite of his ardour and earnestness, gives us 
in his own case some indications of such an exercise of mind. When 
he said, "Thou art the Christ, the Son of the Living God," he cast his 
faith, in a measure, into a dogmatic form: and when he said, "To 
whom shall we go? Thou hast the words of eternal life," he gave "an 
account of the hope that was in him," or grounded his faith upon 

4. Nothing would be more theoretical and unreal than to suppose 
that true Faith cannot exist except when moulded upon a Creed, and 
based upon Evidence; yet nothing would indicate a more shallow 
philosophy than to say that it ought carefully to be disjoined from 
dogmatic and argumentative statements. To assert the latter is to 
discard the science of theology from the service of Religion; to assert 



the former, is to niaiiitaiii that every child, every peasant, must be a 
theologian. Faith caimot exist without grounds or without an object; 
but it does not follow that all who have faith should recognize, and 
be able to state what they beheve, and why. Nor, on the other hand, 
because it is not identical with its grounds, and its object, does it there- 
fore cease to be true Faith, on its recognizing them. In proportion 
as the mind reflects upon itself, it will be able "to give an account" of 
what it believes and hopes; as far as it has not thus reflected, it will not 
be able. Such knowledge cannot be wrong, yet cannot be necessary, 
as long as reflection is at once a natural faculty of our souls, yet not 
an initial faculty. Scripture gives instances of Faith in each of these 
states, when attended by a conscious exercise of Reason, and when not. 
When Nicodemus said, "No man can do these miracles that Thou 
doest, except God be with him," he investigated. When the Scribe 
said, "There is One God, and there is none other but He; and to love 

Him with all the heart is more than all whole burnt offerings and 

sacrifices," his belief was dogmatical. On the other hand, when the 
cripple at Lystra believed, on St. Paul's preaching, or the man at the 
Beautiful gate believed in the Name of Christ, their faith was inde- 
pendent not of objects or grounds (for that is impossible,) but of 
perceptible, recognized, producible objects and grounds: they be- 
lieved, they could not say what or why. True Faith, then, admits, but 
does not require, the exercise of w^hat is commonly understood by 

5. I hope it will not seem any want of reverence towards a great 
Apostle, who reigns with Christ in heaven, if, instead of selecting one 
of the many lessons to which his history calls our attention, or of the 
points of doctrine in it which might so profitably be enlarged upon, 
I employ his Day to continue a subject to which I have already 
devoted such opportunities of speaking from this place, as have from 
time to time occurred, though it be but incidentally connected with 
him. Such a continuation of subject has some sanction in the character 
of our first Lessons for Holy days, which, for the most part, instead 
of being appropriate to the particular Festivals on which they are 
appointed, are portions of a course, and connected with those which 
arc assigned to others. And I will add that, if there is a question, the 
intrusion of which may be excused in the present age, and to which 
the mind is naturally led on the Days commemorative of the first 
Founders of the Church, it is the relation of Faith to Reason under the 



Gospel; and the means whereby, and the grounds whereon, and the 
subjects wherein, the mind is bound to beUeve and acquiesce, in 
matters of rehgion. 

6. In the Epistle for this Day we have an account of St. Peter, when 
awakened by the Angel, obeying him implicitly, yet not understand- 
ing, while he obeyed. He girt himself, and bound on liis sandals, and 
cast his garment about him, and "went out and followed him;" yet 
"wist not that it was true which was done by the Angel, but thought 
he saw a vision." Afterwards, when he "was come to himself, he 
said. Now I know of a surety, that the Lord hath sent His Angel, and 
hath deUvered me." First he acted spontaneously, then he contem- 
plated his own acts. This may be taken as an illustration of the 
difference between the more simple faculties and operations of the 
mind, and that process of analyzing and describing them, which takes 
place upon reflection. We not only feel, and think, and reason, but 
we know that we feel, and think, and reason; not only know, but 
can inspect and ascertain our thoughts, feelings, and reasonings: not 
only ascertain, but describe. Children, for a time, do not realize 
even their material frames, or (as I may say) count their limbs; but, 
as the mind opens, and is cultivated, they turn their attention to 
soul as well as body; they contemplate all they arc, and all they do; 
they are no longer beings of impulse, instinct, conscience, imagina- 
tion, habit, or reason, merely; but they are able to reflect upon their 
own mind as if it were some external object; they reason upon 
their reasonings. This is the point on which I shall now enlarge. 

7. Reason, according to the simplest view of it, is the faculty of 
gaining knowledge without direct perception, or of ascertaining one 
thing by means of another. In this way it is able, from small begin- 
nings, to create to itself a world of ideas, which do or do not cor- 
respond to the things themselves for which they stand, or are true or 
not, according as it is exercised soundly or otherwise. One fact may 
suffice for a whole theory; one principle may create and sustain a 
system; one minute token is a clue to a large discovery. The mind 
ranges to and fro, and spreads out, and advances forward with a 
quickness which has become a proverb, and a subtlety and versatility 
which baffle investigation. It passes on from point to point, gaining 
one by some indication; another on a probability; then availing itself 
of an association; then falling back on some received law; next 



seizing on testimony; then committing itself to some popular impres- 
sion, or some inward instinct, or some obscure memory; and thus it 
makes progress not unlike a clamberer on a steep cliff, who, by quick 
eye, prompt hand, and firm foot, ascends how he knows not himself, 
by personal endowments and by practice, rather than by rule, leaving 
no track behind him, and unable to teach another. It is not too much 
to say that the stepping by which great geniuses scale the mountains 
of truth is as unsafe and precarious to men in general, as the ascent of 
a skilful mountaineer up a literal crag. It is a way which they alone 
can take; and its justification lies in their success. And such mainly is 
the way in wliich all men, gifted or not gifted, commonly reason, — 
not by rule, but by inward faculty. 

8. Reasoning, then, or the exercise of Reason, is a living spon- 
taneous energy witliin us, not an art. But when the mind reflects 
upon itself, it begins to be dissatisfied with the absence of order and 
method in the exercise, and attempts to analyze the various processes 
which take place during it, to refer one to another, and to discover the 
main principles on which they are conducted, as it might contemplate 
and investigate its faculty of memory or imagination. The boldest, 
simplest, and most comprehensive theory which has been invented 
for the analysis of the reasoning process, is the well-known science for 
wliich we are indebted to Aristotle, and wliich is framed upon the 
principle that every act of reasoning is exercised upon neither more 
nor less than three terms. Short of this, we have many general words 
in familiar use to designate particular methods of thought, according 
to wliich the mind reasons (that is, proceeds from truth to truth), or 
to designate particular states of mind wliich influence its reasonings. 
Such methods are antecedent probability, analogy, parallel cases, 
testimony, and circumstantial evidence; and such states of mind are 
prejudice, deference to authority, party spirit, attachment to such and 
such principles, and the hke. In Hke manner we distribute the 
Evidences of Religion into External and Internal; into a priori and ^ 
posteriori', into Evidences of Natural Religion and of Revealed; and 
so on. Again, we speak of proving doctrines either from the nature 
of the case, or from Scripture, or from history; and of teaching them 
in a dogmatic, or a polemical, or a hortatory way. In these and other 
ways we instance the reflective power of the human mind, contem- 
plating and scrutinizing its own acts. 

9. Here, then, are two processes, distinct from each other, — the 



original process of reasoning, and next, the process of investigating 
our reasonings. All men reason, for to reason is nothing more than 
to gain truth from former truth, without the intervention of sense, to 
which brutes are limited; but all men do not reflect upon their own 
reasonings, much less reflect truly and accurately, so as to do justice 
to their own meaning; but only in proportion to their abilities and 
attainments. In other words, all men have a reason, but not all men 
can give a reason. We may denote, then, these two exercises of mind 
as reasoning and arguing, or as conscious and unconscious reasoning, 
or as Implicit Reason and Explicit Reason. And to the latter belong 
the words, science, method, development, analysis, criticism, proof, 
system, principles, rules, laws, and others of a hke nature. 

10. That these two exercises are not to be confounded together 
would seem too plain for remark, except that they have been con- 
founded. Clearness in argument certainly is not indispensable to 
reasoning well. Accuracy in stating doctrines or principles is not 
essential to feeling and acting upon them. The exercise of analysis is 
not necessary to the integrity of the process analyzed. The process of 
reasoning is complete in itself, and independent. The analysis is but 
an account of it; it does not make the conclusion correct; it does not 
make the inference rational. It docs not cause a given individual to 
reason better. It does but give him a sustained consciousness, for good 
or for evil, that he is reasoning. How a man reasons is as much a 
mystery as how he remembers. He remembers better and worse on 
different subject-matters, and he reasons better and worse. Some 
men's reason becomes genius in particular subjects, and is less than 
ordinary in others. The gift or talent of reasoning may be distinct in 
different subjects, though the process of reasoning is the same. Now 
a good arguer or clear speaker is but one who excels in analyzing or 
expressing a process of reason, taken as his subject-matter. He traces 
out the connexion of facts, detects principles, apphes them, supplies 
deficiences, till he has reduced the whole into order. But his talent of 
reasoning, or the gift of reason as possessed by him, may be confined 
to such an exercise, and he may be as httle expert in otlier exercises, 
as a mathematician need be an experimentahst; as little creative of the 
reasoning itself which he analyzes, as a critic need possess the gift of 
writing poems. 

II. But if reasoning and arguing be thus distinct, what is to be 
thought of assertions such as the following? Certainly, to say the 



least, they are very inaccurately worded, and may lead, as they have 
led, to great error. 

12. Tillotson ^, for instance, says: "Nothing ought to be received 
as a divine doctrine and revelation, without good evidence that it is so: 
that is, w^ithout some argument sufficient to satisfy a prudent and con- 
siderate man ^." Again: "Faith ... is an assent of the mind to some- 
thing as revealed by God: now all assent must be grounded upon 
evidence; that is, no man can believe any thing, unless he have, or 
think he hath, some reason to do so. For to be confident of a tiling 
without reason is not faith, but a presumptuous persuasion and 
obstinacy of mind ^." Such assertions either have an untrue meaning, 
or are unequal to the inferences which tlie writers proceed to draw 
from them. 

13. In hke manner Paley and others * argue that miracles are not 
improbable unless a Revelation is improbable, on the ground that 
there is no other conceivable way of ascertaining a Revelation; that 
is, they would imply the necessity of a conscious investigation and 
verification of its claims, or the possession of grounds which are 
satisfactory m argument; whereas considerations which seem weak 
and insufficient in an explicit form may lead, and justly lead, us by an 
implicit process to a reception of Christianity; just as a peasant may 
from the look of the sky foretell tomorrow's weather, on grounds 
which, as far as they are producible, an exact logician would not 
scruple to pronounce inaccurate and inconsequent, "hi what way," 
he asks, "can a Revelation be made," that is, as the context shows, 
be ascertained, "but by miracles? hi none which we arc able to 

14. Again: another writer says, "There are but two ways by which 
God could reveal His will to mankind; either by an immediate 
influence on the mind of every individual of every age, or by selecting 
some particular persons to be His instruments . . . and for this pur- 
pose vested by Him with such powers as might carry the strongest 
evidence that they were really divine teachers ^." On the other hand. 
Bishop Butler tells us that it is impossible to decide what evidence will 

^ [Of course the statements of these various authors are true and important 
in their own place and from their own point of view.] 
^ Serm, vol. ii., p. 260. 
^ Serm., vol. iv, p. 42, 

* Prepar. Consid., p. 3; vide also Farmer on Miracles, p. 539. 
^Douglas, Criterion, pp. 21, 22. 



be afforded of a Revelation, supposing it made; and certainly it might 
have been given v^^ithout any supernatural display at all, being left (as 
it is in a manner even now^) to be received or rejected by each man 
according as his heart sympathized in it, that is, on the influence of 
reasons, v/hich, though practically persuasive, are weak when set 
forth as the argumentative grounds of conviction. 

15. Faith, then, though in all cases a reasonable process, is not 
necessarily founded on investigation, argument, or proof; these pro- 
cesses being but the explicit form which the reasoning takes in the 
case of particular minds. Nay, so far from it, that the opposite 
opinion has, with much more plausibility, been advanced, viz. that 
Faith is not even compatible with these processes. Such an opinion, 
indeed, cannot be maintained, particularly considering the light 
which Scripture casts upon the subject, as in the text; but it may 
easily take possession of serious minds. When they witness the strife 
and division to which argument and controversy minister, the proud 
self-confidence which is fostered by strength of the reasoning powers, 
the laxity of opinion which often accompanies the study of the 
Evidences, the coldness, the formality, the secular and carnal spirit 
which is compatible with an exact adherence to dogmatic formularies; 
and on the other hand, when they recollect that Scripture represents 
religion as a divine life, seated in the affections and manifested in 
spiritual graces, no wonder that they are tempted to rescue Faith from 
all connexion with faculties and habits which may exist in perfection 
without Faith, and which too often usurp from Faith its own pro- 
vince, and profess to be a substitute for it. I repeat, such a persuasion 
is extreme, and will not maintain itself, and cannot be acted on, for 
any long time; it being as paradoxical to prohibit religious inquiry 
and inference, as to make it imperative. Yet we should not dismiss 
the notice of it, on many accounts, without doing justice to it; and 
therefore I propose now, before considering ^ some of the uses of our 
critical and analytical powers, in the province of Religion, to state 
certain of the inconveniences and defects; an undertaking which will 
fully occupy what remains of our time this morning. 

16. hiquiry and argument may be employed, first, in ascertaining 
the divine origin of Rehgion, Natural and Revealed; next, in inter- 
preting Scripture; and thirdly, in determining points of Faith and 
^ [Vide Scnnous xiv. and xv.] 



Morals; that is, in the Evidences, Bibhcal Exposition, and Dogmatic 
Theology. In all three departments there is, first of all, an exercise of 
implicit reason, which is in its degree common to all men; for all men 
gain a certain impression, right or wrong, from what comes before 
them, for or against Christianity, for or against certain interpretations 
of Scripture, for or against certain doctrines. This impression, made 
upon their minds, whether by the claim itself of Revealed Religion, 
or by its documents, or by its teaching, it is the object of science to 
analyze, verify, methodize, and exliibit. We beheve certain things, on 
certain grounds, through certain informants; and the analysis of these 
three, the why, the how, and the what, seems pretty nearly to con- 
stitute the science of divinity. 

17. (i.) By the Evidences of Religion I mean the systematic 
analysis of all the grounds on which we beheve Christianity to be 
true. I say "all," because the word Evidence is often restricted to 
denote only such arguments as arise out of the thing itself which is 
to be proved; or, to speak more definitely, facts and circumstances 
wliich presuppose the point under inquiry as a condition of their 
existence, and wliich are weaker or stronger arguments, according as 
that point approaches more or less closely to be a necessary condition 
of them. Thus blood on the clothes is an evidence of a murderer, just 
so far as a deed of violence is necessary to the fact of the stains, or 
alone accounts for them. Such are the Evidences as drawn out by 
Paley and other writers; and though only a secondary part, they are 
popularly considered the whole of the Evidences, because they can be 
exhibited and studied with far greater ease than antecedent con- 
siderations, presumptions, and analogies, wliich, vague and abstruse 
as they are, still are more truly the grounds on which religious men 
receive the Gospel; but on tliis subject something has been said on a 
former occasion. 

18. (2.) Under the science of Interpretation is of course included 
all inquiry into its principles; the question of mystical interpretation, 
the theory of the double sense, the doctrine of types, the phraseology 
of prophecy, the drift and aim of the several books of Scripture; the 
dates when, the places where, and persons by and to whom they were 
written; the comparison and adjustment of book with book; the uses 
of the Old Testament; the relevancy of the Law to Christians and its 
relation to the Gospel; and the historical fulfihnent of prophecy. And 
previous to such inquiries arc others still more necessary, such as 



the Study of the origmal languages in which the sacred Vohinie is 

19- (3-) Under Dogmatic Theology must be included, not only 
doctrine, such as that of the Blessed Trinity, or the theory of Sacra- 
mental Influence, or the settlement of the Rule of Faith, but questions 
of morals and discipline also. 

20. Now, in considering the imperfections and defects incident to 
such scientific exercises, we must carefully exempt from our remarks 
all instances of them which have been vouchsafed to us from above, 
and therefore have a divine sanction; and that such instances do exist, 
is the most direct and satisfactory answer to any doubts which religious 
persons may entertain, of the lawfulness of employing science in the 
province of Faith at all. Of such analyses and determinations as are 
certainly from man, we are at liberty to dispute both the truth and 
the utility: but what God has done is perfect, that is, perfect according 
to its subject-matter. Whether in the department of evidence. 
Scripture interpretation, or dogmatic teaching, what He has spoken 
must be received, not criticized; — and in saying this, I have not to 
assign the Umits or the channels of God's communications. Whether 
He speaks only by Scripture, or by private and personal suggestion, or 
by the first ages, or by Tradition, or by the Church collective, or by 
the Church in Council, or by the Chair of Saint Peter, are questions 
about which Christians may differ without interfering with the 
principle itself, that what God has given is true, and what He has not 
given may, if so be, be not true. What He has not given by His 
appointed methods, whatever they be, may be venerable for its 
antiquity, or authoritative as held by good men, or safer to hold as 
held by many, or necessary to hold because it has been subscribed, or 
persuasive from its probability, or expedient from its good effects; but 
after all, except that all good things are from God, it is, as far as we 
know, a human statement, and is open to criticism, because the work 
of man. To such human inferences and propositions I confine myself 
in the remarks that follow. 

21. Now the great practical evil of method and form in matters 
of religion, — nay, in all moral matters, — is obviously rhis: — their 
promising more than they can effect. At best the science of divinity 
is very imperfect and inaccurate, yet the very name of science is a 
profession of accuracy. Other and more familiar objections readily 
occur; such as its leading to familiarity with sacred things, and 

N— E 65 


consequent irreverence; its fostering formality; its substituting a sort 
of religious philosophy and literature for worship and practice; its 
weakening the springs of action by inquiring into them; its stimulat- 
ing to controversy and strife; its substituting, in matters of duty, 
positive rules which need explanation for an instinctive feeling which 
commands the mind; its leading the mind to mistake system for 
truth, and to suppose that an hypothesis is real because it is consistent: 
but all such objections, though important, rather lead us to a cautious 
use of science than to a distrust of it in religious matters. But its 
insufficiency in so high a province is an evil which attaches to it from 
first to last, an inherent evil which there are no means of remedying, 
and which, perhaps, lies at the root of those other evils which I have 
just been enumerating. To this evil I shall now direct my attention, 
having already incidentally referred to it in some of the foregoing 

22. No analysis is subtle and delicate enough to represent adequately 
the state of mind under which we believe, or the subjects of belief, as 
they are presented to our thoughts. The end proposed is that of 
delineating, or, as it were, painting what the mind sees and feels: now 
let us consider what it is to portray duly in form and colour things 
material, and we shall surely understand the difficulty, or rather the 
impossibility, of representing the outline and character, the hues and 
shades, in which any intellectual view really exists in the mind, or of 
giving it that substance and that exactness in detail in which consists 
its likeness to the original, or of sufficiently marking those minute 
differences which attach to the same general state of mind or tone of 
thought as found in this or that individual respectively. It is probable 
that a given opinion, as held by several individuals, even when of the 
most congenial views, is as distinct from itself as are their faces. Now 
how minute is the defect in imitation which hinders the likeness of a 
portrait from being successful! how easy is it to recognize who is 
intended by it, without allowing that really he is represented ! Is it not 
hopeless, then, to expect that the most dihgent and anxious investiga- 
tion can end in more than in giving some very rude description of the 
living mind, and its feelings, thoughts, and reasonings? And if it be 
difficult to analyze fully any state, or frame, or opinion of our own 
minds, is it a less difficulty to delineate, as Theology professes to do, 
the works, dealings, providences, attributes, or nature of Almighty 



23. In this point of view wc may, without irreverence, speak even 
of the words of inspired Scripture as imperfect and defective; and 
though they are not subjects for our judgment (God forbid), yet they 
will for that very reason serve to enforce and explain better what I 
would say, and how far the objection goes. Inspiration is defective, 
not in itself, but in consequence of the medium it uses and the beings 
it addresses. It uses human language, and it addresses man; and 
neither can man compass, nor can his hundred tongues utter, the 
mysteries of the spiritual world, and God's appointments in this. 
This vast and intricate scene of things cannot be generalized or repre- 
sented through or to the mind of man; and inspiration, in undertaking 
to do so, necessarily lowers what is divine to raise what is human. 
What, for instance, is the mention made in Scripture of the laws of 
God's government, of His providences, counsels, designs, anger, and 
repentance, but a gracious mode (the more gracious because neces- 
sarily imperfect) of making man contemplate what is far beyond 
him ^? Who shall give method to what is infinitely complex, and 
measure to the unfathomable? We are as worms in an abyss of divine 
works; myriads upon myriads of years would it take, were our hearts 
ever so religious, and our intellects ever so apprehensive, to receive 
from without the just impression of those works as they really are, 
and as experience would convey them to us: — sooner, then, than we 
should know nothing, Almighty God has condescended to speak to 
us so far as human thought and language will admit, by approxima- 
tions, in order to give us practical rules for our own conduct amid 
His infinite and eternal operations. 

24. And herein consists one great blessing of the Gospel Covenant, 
that in Christ's death on the Cross, and in other parts of that all- 
gracious Economy, are concentrated, as it were, and so presented to 
us those attributes and works wliich fdl eternity. And with a like 
graciousness we are also told, in human language, things concerning 
God Himself, concerning His Son and His Spirit, and concerning His 
Son's incarnation, and the union of two natures in His One Person- 
truths which even a peasant holds implicitly, but which Almighty 
God, whether by His Apostles, or by His Church after them, has 
vouchsafed to bring together and methodize, and to commit to the 
keeping of science. 

25. Now all such statements arc likely at first to strike coldly or 

^ [Vide Hist, of the Arians, p. 77. Edit. 3.] 



harshly upon rehgious ears, when taken by themselves, for this reason 
if for no other, — that they express heavenly tilings under earthly 
images, which are infmitely below the reahty. This apphes especially 
to the doctrine of the Eternal Sonship of our Lord and Saviour, as all 
know who have turned their minds to the controversies on the subject. 

26. Again, it may so happen, that statements are only possible in the 
case of certain aspects of a doctrine, and that these seem inconsistent 
with each other, or mysteries, when contrasted together, apart from 
what lies between them; just as if one were shown the picture of a 
little child and an old man, and were told that they represented the 
same person, — a statement wliich would be incomprehensible to 
beings who were unacquainted with the natural changes which take 
place, in the course of years, in the human frame. 

27. Or doctrinal statements may be introduced, not so much for 
their own sake, as because many consequences flow from them, and 
therefore a great variety of errors may, by means of them, be pre- 
vented. Such is the doctrine that our Saviour's personality is in His 
Godhead, not in His manhood; that He has taken the manliood into 
God. It is evident that such statements, being made for the sake of 
something beyond, when viewed apart from their end, or in them- 
selves, are abrupt, and may offend hearers. 

28. Again, so it is, however it be explained, that frequently we do 
not recognize our sensations and ideas, when put into words ever so 
carefully. The representation seems out of shape and strange, and 
startles us, even though we know not how to fmd fault with it. This 
applies, at least in the case of some persons, to portions of the received 
theological analysis of the impression made upon the mind by the 
Scripture notices concerning Christ and the Holy Spirit. In like 
manner, such phrases as "good works are a condition of eternal Hfe," 
or "the salvation of the regenerate ultimately depends upon them- 
selves," — though unexceptionable, are of a nature to offend certain 

29. This difficulty of analyzing our more recondite feelings happily 
and convincingly, has a most important influence upon the science of 
the Evidences. Defenders of Christianity naturally select as reasons 
for belief, not the highest, the truest, the most sacred, the most inti- 
mately persuasive, but such as best admit of being exhibited in argu- 
ment; and these are commonly not the real reasons in die case of 
religious men. 



30. Nay, they are led for the same reason, to select such arguments 
as all will allow; that is, such as depend on principles which are a 
common measure for all minds. A science certainly is, in its very 
nature, public property; when, then, the grounds of Faith take the 
shape of a book of Evidences, nothing properly can be assumed but 
what men in general will grant as true; that is, nothing but what is on 
a level with all minds, good and bad, rude and refmed. 

31. Again, as to the difficulty of detecting and expressing the real 
reasons on which we believe, let this be considered, — how very 
differently an argument strikes the mind at one time and another, 
according to its particular state, or the accident of the moment. At 
one time it is weak and unmeaning, — at another, it is nothing short of 
demonstration. We take up a book at one time, and see nothing in it; 
at another, it is full of weighty remarks and precious thoughts. Some- 
times a statement is axiomatic, — sometimes we are at a loss to see 
what can be said for it. Such, for instance, are the following, many 
like which are found in controversy; — that true saints cannot but 
persevere to the end; or that the influences of the Spirit cannot but be 
effectual; or that there must be an infallible Head of the Church on 
earth; or that the P^oman Church, extending into all lands, is the 
Catholic Church; or that a Church, which is Cathohc abroad, cannot 
be schismatical in England; or that, if our Lord is the Son of God, He 
must be God; or that a Revelation is probable; or that, if God is All- 
powerful, He must be also All-good. Who shall analyze the assem- 
blage of opinions in this or that mind, which occasions it ahnost 
instinctively to reject or to accept each of these and similar positions? 
Far be it from me to seem to insinuate that they are hut opinions, 
neither true nor false, and approving themselves or not, according to 
the humour or prejudice of the individual: so far from it, that I would 
maintain that the recondite reasons which lead each person to take or 
decline them, are just the most important portion of the considera- 
tions on which his conviction depends; and I say so, by way of 
showing that the science of controversy, or again the science of 
Evidences, has done very little, since it cannot analyze and exliibit 
these momentous reasons; nay, so far has done worse than little, in 
that it professes to have done much, and leads the stucicnt to mistake 
what arc but secondary points in debate, as if they were the most 

32. It often happens, for the same reason, that controversialists or 



philosophers are spoken of by tliis or that person as unequal, some- 
times profound, sometimes weak. Such cases of inequality, of course, 
do occur; but we should be sure, when tempted so to speak, that the 
fault is not with ourselves, who have not entered into an author's 
meaning, or analyzed the imphcit reasonings along which liis mind 
proceeds in those parts of his writings which we not merely dissent 
from (for that we have a right to do), but criticize as inconsecutive. 

33. These remarks apply especially to the proofs commonly 
brought, whether for the truth of Christianity, or for certain doctrines 
from texts of Scripture. Such alleged proofs are commonly strong or 
slight, not in themselves, but according to the circumstances under 
which the doctrine professes to come to us, which they are brought 
to prove; and they will have a great or small effect upon our minds, 
according as we admit those circumstances or not. Now, the admis- 
sion of those circumstances involves a variety of antecedent views, 
presumptions, implications, associations, and the like, many of which 
it is very difficult to detect and analyze. One person, for instance, is 
convinced by Paley's argument from the Miracles, another is not; and 
why? Because the former admits that there is a God, that He governs 
the world, that He wishes the salvation of man, that the light of 
nature is not sufficient for man, that there is no other way of intro- 
ducing a Revelation but miracles, and that men, who were neither 
enthusiasts nor impostors, could not have acted as the Apostles did, 
unless they had seen the miracles which they attested; the other denies 
some one, or more, of these statements, or does not feel the force of 
some other principle more recondite and latent still than any of these, 
which is nevertheless necessary to the validity of the argument. 

34. Further, let it be considered, that, even as regards what are 
commonly called Evidences, that is, arguments a posteriori, conviction 
for the most part follows, not upon any one great and decisive proof 
or token of the point in debate, but upon a number of very minute 
circumstances together, which the mind is quite unable to count up 
and methodize in an argumentative form. Let a person only call to 
mind the clear impression he has about matters of every day's occur- 
rence, that this man is bent on a certain object, or that that man was 
displeased, or another suspicious; or that one is happy, and another 
unhappy; and how much depends in such impressions on manner, 
voice, accent, words uttered, silence instead of words, and all the 
many subtle symptoms which are felt by the mind, but cannot be 



contemplated; and let him consider how very poor an account he is 
able to give of his impression, if he avows it, and is called upon to 
justify it. This, indeed, is meant by what is called moral proof, in 
opposition to legal. We speak of an accused person being guilty widi- 
out any doubt, even though the evidences of his guilt are none of 
them broad and definite enough in themselves to admit of being 
forced upon the notice of those who will not exert themselves to see 

35. Now, should the proof of Christianity, or the Scripture proof 
of its doctrines, be of this subtle nature, of course it cannot be 
exhibited to advantage in argument: and even if it be not such, but 
contain strong and almost legal evidences, still there will always be a 
temptation in the case of writers on Evidence, or on the Scripture 
proof of doctrine, to over-state and exaggerate, or to systematize in 
excess; as if they were making a case in a court of law, rather than 
simply and severely analyzing, as far as is possible, certain existing 
reasons why the Gospel is true, or why it should be considered of a 
certain doctrinal character. It is hardly too much to say, that almost 
all reasons formally adduced in moral inquiries, are rather specimens 
and symbols of the real grounds, than those grounds themselves. 
They do but approximate to a representation of the general character 
of the proof which the writer wishes to convey to another's mind. 
They cannot, like mathematical proof, be passively followed with an 
attention confined to what is stated, and with the admission of nothing 
but what is urged. Rather, they are hints towards, and samples of, 
the true reasoning, and demand an active, ready, candid, and docile 
mind, which can throw itself into what is said, neglect verbal difficul- 
ties, and pursue and carry out principles. This is the true office of a 
writer, to excite and direct trains of thought; and this, on the other 
hand, is the too common practice of readers, to expect every thing 
to be done for them, — to refuse to think, — to criticize the letter, 
instead of reaching forwards towards the sense, — and to account every 
argument as unsound which is illogically worded. 

36. Here is the fertile source of controversy, which may un- 
doubtedly be prolonged without limit by those who desire it, while 
words are incomplete exponents of ideas, and complex reasons 
demand study, and involve prolixity. They, then, who wish to 
shorten the dispute, and to silence a captious opponent, look out for 
some strong and manifest argument which may be stated tersely, 


hSelected sermons 

handled conveniently, and urged rhetorically; some one reason, 
which bears with it a show of vigour and plausibility, or a profession 
of clearness, simplicity, or originahty, and may be easily reduced to 
mood and figure. Hence the stress often laid upon particular texts, as 
if decisive of the matter in hand: hence one disputant dismisses all 
parts of the Bible which relate to the Law, — another fmds the high 
doctrines of Cliristianity revealed in the Book of Genesis, — another 
rejects certain portions of the inspired volume, as the Epistle of St. 
James, — another gives up the Apocrypha, — another rests the defence 
of Revelation on Miracles only, or the Internal Evidence only, — 
another sweeps away all Christian teaching but Scripture, — one and 
all from impatience at being allotted, in the particular case, an evid- 
ence which does little more than create an impression on the mind; 
from dislike of an evidence, varied, minute, complicated, and a desire 
of sometliing producible, striking, and decisive. 

37. Lastly, since a test is in its very nature of a negative character, 
and since argumentative forms are mainly a test of reasoning, so far 
they will be but critical, not creative. They will be useful in raising 
objections, and in ministering to scepticism; they will pull down, and 
will not be able to build up. 

38. I have been engaged in proving the following points: that the 
reasonings and opinions Vv^hich are involved in the act of Faith are 
latent and imphcit; that the mind reflecting on itself is able to bring 
them out into some defmite and methodical form; that Faith, how- 
ever, is complete without this reflective faculty, which, in matter of 
fact, often does interfere with it, and must be used cautiously. 

39. I am quite aware that I have said nothing but what must have 
often passed through the minds of others; and it may be asked whether 
it is worth wliile so diligently to traverse old ground. Yet perhaps it is 
never without its use to bring together in one view, and steadily con- 
template truths, wliich one by one may be familiar notwithstanding. 

40. May we be in the number of those who, with the Blessed 
Apostle whom we this day commemorate, employ all the powers of 
their minds to the service of their Lord and Saviour, who are drawn 
heavenward by His wonder-working grace, whose hearts are filled 
with His love, who reason in His fear, who seek Him in the way of 
His commandments, and who thereby believe on Him to the saving 
of their souls ! 



On the sth, 9th, loth, I2th, 20th, 22nd and 27th February 
1841 The Times printed letters signed "CathoHcus", which later 
in the year were collected as a pamphlet: The Tatiiworth Reading 
Room. Letters on an Address delivered by Sir Robert Peel, Bart. M.P. 
on the Establishment of a Reading Room at Tamworth. By 
CatholicHs. Originally published in The Times, and since revised and 
corrected by the Author, the pubhsher being John Mortimer of 
Wigmore St., London. The revisions advertised included the 
addition of a few passages of not more than paragraph length. 
The work next appeared in the collection Discussions and Argu- 
ments on Various Subjects, 1872, and it is the text of this volume 
that is here reprinted. This 1 872 text makes more verbal revision 
and adds one passage: "How wonderful . . . inflammable sub- 
stance" (p. 87, below). 

The warm, indeed the hot, reception of the letters, especially 
by Peel, is described in The History of the Times 1841-84, 1939, 
i. 4o6f. When in 1870 Newman quoted at length from the 
sixth of them in his Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent (1870), 
he described them as "written with a freshness and force I cannot 
now command". 

It is interesting to fmd that Matthew Arnold's notebooks, 
which quote only four passages from Newman, include three 
from The Tamworth Reading Room, in the text of 1872. 

The footnotes are Newman's. 

The Tamworth Reading Room 

(Addressed to the Editor of The Times. By Catholicns.) 

1. Secular Knowledge in contrast with Religion 

Sir, — Sir Robert Peel's position in the country, and his high character, 
render it impossible that his words and deeds should be other than 
public property. This alone would furnish an apology for my calling 
the attention of your readers to the startling language, which many of 
them doubtless have already observed, in the Address which this most 
excellent and distinguished man has lately delivered upon the 
establishment of a Library and Reading Room at Tamworth; but he 
has superseded the need of apology altogether, by proceeding to 
present it to the public in the form of a pamphlet. His speech, then 
becomes important, both from the name and the express act of its 
author. At the same time, I must allow that he has not published it 
in the fulness in which it was spoken. Still it seems to me right and 
fair, or rather imperative, to animadvert upon it as it has appeared in 
your columns, since in that shape it will have the widest circulation. 
A public man must not claim to harangue the whole world in news- 
papers, and then to offer his second thoughts to such as choose to buy 
them at a bookseller's. 

I shall surprise no one who has carefully read Sir Robert's Address, 
and perhaps all who have not, by stating my conviction, that, did a 
person take it up without looking at the heading, he would to a cer- 
tainty set it down as a production of the years 1827 and 1828, — the 
scene Gower Street, the speaker Mr. Brougham or Dr. Lushington, 
and the occasion, die laying the first stone, or the inauguration, of the 
then-called London University. I profess myself quice unable to draw 
any satisfactory line of difference between the Gower Street and 
the Tamworth Exhibition, except, of course, that Sir Robert's 
personal religious feeling breaks out in his Address across his assumed 



philosophy. I say assumed, I might say affected; — for I think too 
well of him to beUeve it genuine. 

On the occasion in question, Sir Robert gave expression to a 
theory of morals and religion, which of course, in a popular speech, 
was not put out in a very dogmatic form, but which, when analyzed 
and fitted together, reads somewhat as follows: — 

Human nature, he seems to say, if left to itself, becomes sensual 
and degraded. Uneducated men live in the indulgence of their pas- 
sions; or, if they are merely taught to read, they dissipate and debase 
their minds by trifling or vicious publications. Education is the 
cultivation of the intellect and heart, and Useful Knowledge is the 
great instrument of education. It is the parent of virtue, the nurse of 
religion; it exalts man to his highest perfection, and is the sufficient 
scope of his most earnest exertions. 

Physical and moral science rouses, transports, exalts, enlarges, 
tranquilhzes, and satisfies the mind. Its attractiveness obtains a hold 
over us; the excitement attending it supersedes grosser excitements; it 
makes us know our duty, and thereby enables us to do it; by taking 
the mind off itself, it destroys anxiety; and by providing objects of 
admiration, it soothes and subdues us. 

And, in addition, it is a kind of neutral ground, on which men of 
every shade of pohtics and religion may meet together, disabuse 
each other of their prejudices, form intimacies, and secure co-opera- 

This, it is almost needless to say, is the very theory, expressed 
temperately, on which Mr. Brougham once expatiated in the Glas- 
gow and London Universities. Sir R. Peel, indeed, has spoken with 
somewhat of his characteristic moderation; but for his closeness in 
sentiment to the Brougham of other days, a few parallels from their 
respective Discourses will be a sufficient voucher. 

For instance, Mr, Brougham, in his Discourses upon Science, and 
in his Pursuit of Knowledge under Difficulties,^ wrote about the 
"pure delight" of physical knowledge, of its "pure gratification," of 
its "tendency to purify and elevate man's nature," of its "elevating 
and refming it," of its "giving a dignity and importance to the enjoy- 
ment of life." Sir Robert, pursuing the idea, shows us its importance 
even in death, observing, that physical knowledge supplied the 

^ [This latter work is wrongly ascribed to Lord Brougham in this passage. 
It is, however, of the Brougham school.] 



thoughts from which "a great cxpcrimentahst professed in his last 
illness to derive some pleasure and some consolation, when most other 
sources of consolation and pleasure were closed to him." 

Mr, Brougham talked much and eloquently of "the sweetness of 
knowledge," and "the charms of philosophy," of students "smitten 
with the love of knowledge," of '\uooinq truth with the unwearied 
ardour of a lover," of "keen and overpowering emotion, o£ ecstasy," of 
"the absorbing passion of knowledge," of "the strength of the passion, 
and the exquisite pleasure o£ its gratification." And Sir Robert, in 
less glowing language, but even in a more tender strain than Mr. 
Brougham, exclaims, "If I can only persuade you to enter upon that 
delightful path, I am sanguine enough to believe that there will be 
opened to you gradual charms and temptations which will induce you to 

Mr. Brougham naturally went on to enlarge upon "bold and suc- 
cessful adventures in the pursuit; — such, perhaps, as in the story of 
Paris and Helen, or Hero and Leander;" of "daring ambition in its 
course to greatness," of "enterprising spirits," and their "brilliant 
feats," of "adventurers of the world of intellect," and of "the 
illustrious vanquishers of fortune." And Sir Robert, not to be out- 
done, echoes back "aspirations for knowledge and distinction," 
"simple determination of overcoming difficulties," "premiums on 
skill and intelligence," "mental activity," "steamboats and railroads," 
"producer and consumer," "spirit of inquiry afloat;" and at length he 
breaks out into almost conventical eloquence, crying, "Every news- 
paper teems with notices of publications written u^on popular principles, 
detailing all the recent discoveries of science, and their connexion with 
improvements in arts and manufactures. Let me earnestly entreat you 
not to neglect the opportunity vv^hich we are now willing to afford 
you! It will not he our fault if the ample page of knowledge, rich 
with the spoils of time, is not unrolled to you! We tell you," etc., 

Mr. Brougham pronounces that a man by "learning truths wholly 
new to him," and by "satisfying himself of the grounds on which 
known truths rest," "will enjoy a proud consciousness of having, by his 
own exertions become a wiser, and therefore a more exalted creature." 
Sir Robert runs abreast of this great sentiment. He tells us, in words 
which he adopts as his own, that a man "in becoming wiser will 
become better:" ht will "rise trf ow^e in the scale ofintcllectual and moral 



existence, and by being accustomed to such contemplations, he will 
feel the moral dignity of his nature exalted'' 

Mr. Brougham, on his inauguration at Glasgow, spoke to the 
ingenuous youth assembled on the occasion, of "the benefactors of 
mankind, when they rest from their pious labours, looking down 
upon the blessings with which their toils and sufferings have clothed 
the scene of their former existence;" and in his Discourse upon Science 
declared it to be "no mean reward of our labour to become acquainted 
with the prodigious genius of those who have almost exalted the 
nature of man above his destined sphere;" and v/ho "hold a station 
apart, rising over all the great teachers of mankind, and spoken of 
reverently, as if Newton and La Place were not the names of mortal 
men." Sir Robert cannot, of course, equal this sublime flight; but he 
succeeds in calling Newton and others "those mighty spirits which 
have made the greatest (though imperfect) advances towards the 
understanding of 'the Divine Nature and Power.' " 

Mr. Brougham talked at Glasgow about putting to flight the "evil 
spirits of tyranny and persecution which haunted the long night now 
gone down the sky," and about men "no longer suflering themselves 
to be led blindfold in ignorance" and in his Pursuit of Knowledge he 
speaks of Pascal having, "under the influence of certain religious 
views, during a period of depression, conceived scientific pursuits to 
be little better than abuse of his time and faculties." Sir Robert, 
fainter in tone, but true to the key, warns his hearers, — "Do not be 
deceived by the sneers that you hear against knowledge, which are 
uttered by men who want to depress you, and keep you depressed to 
the level of their own contented ignorance^ 

Mr. Brougham laid down at Glasgow the infidel principle, or, as 
he styles it, "the great truth," which "has gone forth to all the ends of 
the earth, that man shall no more render account to man for his belief, 
over which he has himself no control." And Dr. Lushington applied 
it in Gower Street to the College then and there rising, by asking, 
"Will any one argue for establishing a monopoly to be enjoyed by the 
few who are of one denomination of the Christian Church only?" And 
he went on to speak of the association and union of all without 
exclusion or restriction, of "friendsliips cementing the bond of charity, 
and softening the asperities which ignorance and separation have 
fostered." Long may it be before Sir Robert Peel professes the great 
principle itself! even though, as the following passages show, he is 



inconsistent enough to think highly of its appHcation in the culture of 
the mind. He speaks, for instance, of "this preliminary and funda- 
mental rule, that no works o{ cotitrovcrsial divinity shall enter into the 
library (applause)," — of "the institution being open to all persons of 
all descriptions, without reference to political opinions, or rcU^ious 
creed" — and of "an edifice in which men of all political opinions and 
all religious feelings may unite in the furtherance of knowledge, with- 
out the asperities of party feeling." Now, that British society should 
consist of persons of different religions, is this a positive standing evil, 
to be endured at best as unavoidable, or a topic of exultation? Of 
exultation, answers Sir Robert; the greater differences the better, the 
more the merrier. So we must interpret his tone. 

It is reserved for few to witness the triumph of their own opinions; 
much less to witness it in the instance of their own direct and personal 
opponents. Whether the Lord Brougham of this day feels all that 
satisfaction and inward peace which he attributes to success of what- 
ever kind in intellectual efforts, it is not for me to decide; but that he 
has achieved, to speak in his own style, a mighty victory, and is lead- 
ing in chains behind his chariot-wheels, a great captive, is a fact 
beyond question. 

Such is the reward in 1841 for unpopularity in 1827. 

What, however, is a boast to Lord Brougham, is in the same pro- 
portion a slur upon the fair fame of Sir Robert Peel, at least in the 
judgment of those who have hitherto thought well of him. Were 
there no other reason against the doctrine propounded in the Address 
which has been the subject of these remarks, (but I hope to be allowed 
an opportunity of assigning others,) its parentage would be a grave 
prima facie difficulty in receiving it. It is, indeed, most melancholy to 
see so sober and experienced a man practising the antics of one of the 
wildest performers of this wild age; and taking off the tone, manner, 
and gestures of the versatile ex-Chancellor, with a versatihty almost 
equal to his own. 

Yet let him be assured that the task of rivalling such a man is hope- 
less, as well as unprofitable. No one can equal the great sophist. 
Lord Brougham is inimitable in his own line. 



2. Secular Knowledge not the Principle of Moral 

A distinguished Conservative statesman tells us from the town-hall of 
Tamworth that "in becoming wiser a man will become better;" 
meaning by wiser more conversant with the facts and theories of 
physical science; and that such a man will "rise at once in the scale of 
intellectual and wor^/ existence." "That," he adds, "is my belief." He 
avows, also, that the fortunate individual whom he is describing, by 
being "accustomed to such contemplations, will feel the moral dignity 
of his nature exalted." He speaks also of physical knowledge as "being 
the means of useful occupation and rational recreation;" of "the 
pleasures of knowledge" superseding "the indulgence of sensual 
appetite," and of its "contributing to the intellectual and tnoral im- 
provement of the community." Accordingly, he very consistently 
wishes it to be set before "the female as well as the male portion of the 
population;" otherwise, as he truly observes, "great injustice would 
be done to the well-educated and virtuous women" of the place. 
They are to "have equal power and equal influence with others." It 
will be difficult to exhaust the reflections which rise in the mind on 
reading avowals of this nature. 

The first question which obviously suggests itself is how these 
wonderful moral effects are to be wrought under the instrumentality 
of the physical sciences. Can the process be analyzed and drawn out, 
or does it act like a dose or a charm which comes into general use 
empirically? Does Sir Robert Peel mean to say, that whatever be the 
occult reasons for the result, so it is; you have but to drench the 
popular mind with physics, and moral and religious advancement 
folio v/s on the whole, in spite of individual failures? Yet where has 
the experiment been tried on so large a scale as to justify such anticipa- 
tions? Or rather, does he mean, that, from the nature of the case, he 
who is imbued with science and literature, unless adverse influences 
interfere, cannot but be a better man? It is natural and becoming to 
seek for some clear idea of the meaning of so dark an oracle. To know 
is one thing, to do is another; the two things are altogether distinct. 
A man knows he should get up in the morning, — he lies a-bed; he 
knows he should not lose his temper, yet he cannot keep it. A 
labouring man knows he should not go to the ale-house, and his wife 



knows she should not filch when she goes out charing; but, neverthe- 
less, in these cases, the consciousness of a duty is not all one with the 
performance of it. There are, then, large families of instances, to say 
the least, in which men may become wiser, without becoming better; 
what, then, is the meaning of this great maxim in the mouth of its 

Mr. Bentham would answer, that the knowledge which carries 
virtue along with it, is the knowledge how to take care of number one 
— a clear appreciation of what is pleasurable, what painful, and what 
promotes the one and prevents the other. An uneducated man is ever 
mistaking his own interest, and standing in the way of his own true 
enjoyments. Useful Knowledge is that which tends to make us more 
useful to ourselves; — a most definite and intelligible account of the 
matter, and needing no explanation. But it would be a great injustice, 
both to Lord Brougham and to Sir Robert, to suppose, when 
they talk of Knowledge being Virtue, that they are Benthamizing. 
Bentham had not a spark of poetry in him; on the contrary, there is 
much of high aspiration, generous sentiment, and impassioned feeling 
in the tone of Lord Brougham and Sir Robert. They speak of know- 
ledge as something "pulchrum," fair and glorious, exalted above the 
range of ordinary humanity, and so little connected with the personal 
interest of its votaries, that, though Sir Robert does obiter talk of im- 
proved modes of draining, and the chemical properties of manure, yet 
he must not be supposed to come short of the lofty enthusiasm of Lord 
Brougham, who expressly panegyrizes certain ancient philosophers 
who gave up riches, retired into solitude, or embraced a life of travel, 
smit with a sacred curiosity about physical or mathematical truth. 

Here Mr. Bentham, did it fall to him to offer a criticism, doubtless 
would take leave to inquire whether such language was anything 
better than a fine set of words "signifying nothing," — flowers of 
rhetoric, which bloom, smell sweet, and die. But it is impossible to 
suspect so grave and practical a man as Sir Robert Peel of using words 
literally without any meaning at all; and though I think at best they 
have not a very profound meaning, yet, such as it is, we ought to 
attempt to draw it out. 

Now, without using exact theological language, we may surely 
take it for granted, from the experience of facts, that the human mind 
is at best in a very unformed or disordered state; passions and con- 
science, likings and reason, conflicting,— might rising against right, 

N— F 8l 


with the prospect of things getting worse. Under these circumstances, 
what is it that the School of philosophy in which Sir Robert has 
enrolled himself proposes to accomplish? Not a victory of the mind 
over itself — not the supremacy of the law — not the reduction of the 
rebels — not the unity of our complex nature — not an harmonizing of 
the chaos — but the mere lulling of the passions to rest by turning the 
course of thought; not a change of character, but a mere removal of 
temptation. This should be carefully observed. When a husband is 
gloomy, or an old woman peevish and fretful, those who are about 
them do all they can to keep dangerous topics and causes of offence 
out of the way, and think themselves lucky, if, by such skilful manage- 
ment, they get through the day without an outbreak. When a child 
cries, the nurserymaid dances it about, or points to the pretty black 
horses out of window, or shows how ashamed poll-parrot or poor 
puss must be of its tantrums. Such is the sort of prescription which 
Sir Robert Peel offers to the good people of Tamworth. He makes 
no pretence of subduing the giant nature, in which we were born, of 
smiting the loins of the domestic enemies of our peace, of overthrow- 
ing passion and fortifying reason; he does but offer to bribe the foe 
for the nonce with gifts which will avail for that purpose just so long 
as they will avail, and no longer. 

This was mainly the philosophy of the great Tully, except when it 
pleased him to speak as a disciple of the Porch. Cicero handed the 
recipe to Brougham, and Brougham has passed it on to Peel. If we 
examine the old Roman's meaning in "O philosophia, vita; t/i/.v," it 
was neither more nor less than this; — that, n^hile we were thinking of 
philosophy, we were not thinking of anything else; we did not feel 
grief, or anxiety, or passion, or ambition, or hatred all that time, and 
the only point was to keep tliinking of it. How to keep thinking of 
it was extra artem. If a man was in grief, he was to be amused; if dis- 
appointed, to be excited; if in a rage, to be soothed; if in love, to be 
roused to the pursuit of glory. No inward change was contemplated, 
but a change of external objects; as if we were all White Ladies or 
Undines, our moral life being one of impulse and emotion, not sub- 
jected to laws, not consisting in habits, not capable of growth. When 
Cicero was outwitted by Ca:sar, he solaced himself with Plato; when 
he lost his daughter, he wrote a treatise on Consolation. Such, too, 
was the philosophy of that Lydian city, mentioned by the historian, 
who in a famine played at dice to stay their stomachs. 



And such is the rule of hfe advocated by Lord Brougham; and 
though, of course, he protests that know^ledge "must invigorate the 
mind as well as entertain it, and refme and elevate the character, wlulc 
it gives listlessncss and weariness tlicir most agreeable excitement and 
relaxation," yet his notions of vigour and elevation, when analyzed, 
will be found to resolve diemselves into a mere preternatural excite- 
ment under the influence of some stimulating object, or the peace 
which is attained by there being nothing to quarrel with. He speaks 
of philosophers leaving the care of their estates, or declining public 
honours, from the greater desirableness of Knowledge; envies the 
shelter enjoyed in the University of Glasgow from the noise and 
bustle of the world; and, apropos of Pascal and Cowper, "so mighty," 
says he, "is the power of intellectual occupation, to make the heart 
forget, for the time, its most prevailing griefs, and to change its deepest 
gloom, to sunshine." 

Whether Sir Robert Peel meant all this, which others before him 
have meant, it is impossible to say; but I will be bound, if he did 
not mean this, he meant nothing else, and his words will certainly 
insinuate this meaning, wherever a reader is not content to go without 
any meaning at all. They will countenance, with his high authority, 
what in one form or other is a chief error of the day, in very distinct 
schools of opinion, — that our true excellence comes not from within, 
but from without; not wrought out through personal struggles and 
sufl^erings, but following upon a passive exposure to influences over 
which we have no control. They will countenance the theory that 
diversion is the instrument of improvement, and excitement the con- 
dition of right action; and whereas diversions cease to be diversions 
if they are constant, and excitements by their very nature have a crisis 
and run through a course, they will tend to make novelty ever in 
request, and will set the great teachers of morals upon the incessant 
search after stimulants and sedatives, by which unruly nature may, 
pro re nata, be kept in order. 

Hence, be it observed. Lord Brougham, in the last quoted sentence, 
tells us, with much accuracy of statement, that "intellectual occupa- 
tion made the heart" of Pascal or Cowper "for the time forget its 
griefs." He frankly offers us a philosophy of expedients: he shows us 
how to live by medicine. Digestive pills half an hour before dinner, 
and a posset at bedtime at the best; and at the worst, dram-drinking 
and opium, — the very remedy against broken hearts, or remorse of 



conscience, which is in request among the many, in gin-palaces not 

And if these remedies be but of temporary effect at the utmost, 
more commonly they will have no effect at all. Strong hquors, 
indeed, do for a time succeed in their object; but who was ever con- 
soled in real trouble by the small beer of literature or science? 
"Sir," said Rasselas, to the philosopher who had lost liis daughter, 
"mortahty is an event by which a wise man can never be surprised." 
"Young man," answered the mourner, "you speak Hke one that 
hath never felt the pangs of separation. What comfort can truth or 
reason afford me? of what effect are they now but to tell me that 
my daughter will not be restored?" Or who was ever made more 
humble or more benevolent by being told, as the same practical 
moralist words it, "to concur with the great and unchangeable 
scheme of universal felicity, and co-operate with the general dispensa- 
tion and tendency of the present system of things"? Or who was 
made to do any secret act of self-denial, or was steeled against pain, or 
peril, by all the lore of the infidel La Place, or those other "mighty 
spirits" which Lord Brougham and Sir Robert eulogize? Or when 
was a choleric temperament ever brought under by a scientific King 
Canute planting his professor's chair before the rising waves? And as 
to the "keen" and "ecstatic" pleasures wliich Lord Brougham, not to 
say Sir Robert, ascribes to intellectual pursuit and conquest, I cannot 
help thinking that in that line they will find themselves outbid in the 
market by gratifications much closer at hand, and on a level with 
the meanest capacity. Sir Robert makes it a boast that women are 
to be members of his institution; it is hardly necessary to remind so 
accomplished a classic, that Aspasia and other learned ladies in Greece 
are no very encouraging precedents in favour of the purifying effects 
of science. But the strangest and most painful topic which he urges, 
is one which Lord Brougham has had the good taste altogether to 
avoid, — the power, not of religion, but of scientific knowledge, on a 
death-bed; a subject which Sir Robert treats in language which it is 
far better to believe is mere oratory than is said in earnest. 

Such is this new art of living, offered to the labouring classes, — we 
will say, for instance, in a severe winter, snow on the ground, glass 
falling, bread rising, coal at 2od. the cwt., and no work. 

It does not require many words, then, to determine that, taking 
human nature as it is actually found, and assuming that there is an Art 



of life, to say that it consists, or in any essential manner is placed, in 
the cultivation of Knowledge, that the mind is changed by a dis- 
covery, or saved by a diversion, and can thus be amused into immor- 
tality, — that grief, anger, cowardice, self-conceit, pride, or passion, 
can be subdued by an examination of shells or grasses, or inhaling of 
gases, or chipping of rocks, or calculating the longitude, is the veriest 
of pretences which sophist or mountebank ever professed to a gaping 
auditory. If virtue be a mastery over the mind, if its end be action, if 
its perfection be inward order, harmony, and peace, we must seek 
it in graver and holier places than in Libraries and Reading Rooms. 

J. Secular Knowledge not a direct Means of Moral 

There are two Schools of philosophy, in high esteem, at this day, as 
at other times, neither of them accepting Christian principles as the 
guide of life, yet both of them unhappily patronized by many whom 
it would be the worst and most cruel uncharitableness to suspect of 
unbelief. Mr. Bentham is the master of the one; and Sir Robert Peel 
is a disciple of the other. 

Mr. Bentham's system has nothing ideal about it; he is a stern 
reahst, and he limits his realism to things which he can see, hear, taste, 
touch, and handle. He does not acknowledge the existence of any- 
thing which he cannot ascertain for liimself. Exist it may neverthe- 
less, but till it makes itself felt, to him it exists not; till it comes down 
right before him, and he is very short-sighted, it is not recognized by 
him as having a co-existence with liimself, any more tlian the 
Emperor of China is received into the European family of Kings. 
With him a being out of sight is a being simply out of mind; nay, he 
does not allow the traces or glimpses of facts to have any claim on his 
regard, but with him to have a little and not much, is to have notliing 
at all. With him to speak truth is to be ready with a definition, and 
to imagine, to guess, to doubt, or to falter, is much the same as to lie. 
What opinion will such an iron thinker entertain of Cicero's "glory," 
or Lord Brougham's "truth," or Sir Robert's "scientific consola- 
tions," and all those other airy nothings which arc my proper subject 



of remark, and which I have in view when, by way of contrast, I 
make mention of the philosophy of Bentham? And yet the doctrine 
of the three eminent orators, whom I have ventured to criticise, has in 
it much that is far nobler than Benthamism; their misfortune being, 
not that they look for an excellence above the beaten path of life, but 
that whereas Christianity has told us what that excellence is, Cicero 
lived before it was given to the world, and Lord Brougham and Sir 
Robert Peel prefer liis involuntary error to their own inherited truth. 
Surely, there is something unearthly and superhuman in spite of 
Bentham; but it is not glory, or knowledge, or any abstract idea of 
virtue, but great and good tidings wliich need not here be particularly 
mentioned, and the pity is, that these Christian statesmen cannot be 
content with what is divine without as a supplement hankering after 
what was heathen. 

Now, independent of all other considerations, the great difference, 
in a practical light, between the object of Christianity and of heathen 
belief, is this — that glory, science, knowledge, and whatever other fme 
names we use, never healed a wounded heart, nor changed a sin- 
ful one; but the Divine Word is with power. The ideas which 
Christianity brings before us are in themselves full of influence, and 
they are attended with a supernatural gift over and above themselves, 
in order to meet the special exigencies of our nature. Knowledge is 
not "power," nor is glory "the first and only fair;" but "Grace," or 
the " Word," by whichever name we call it, has been from the first a 
quickening, renovating, organizing principle. It has new created the 
individual, and transferred and knit him into a social body, composed 
of members each similarly created. It has cleansed man of his moral 
diseases, raised him to hope and energy, given him to propagate a 
brotherhood among his fellows, and to found a family or rather a 
kingdom of saints all over the earth; — it introduced a new force into 
the world, and the impulse which it gave continues in its original 
vigour down to this day. Each one of us has lit his lamp from his 
neighbour, or received it from his fathers, and the hghts thus trans- 
mitted are at this time as strong and as clear as if 1800 years had not 
passed since the kindling of the sacred flame. What has glory or 
knowledge been able to do like this? Can it raise the dead? can it 
create a polity? can it do more than testify man's need and typify 
God's remedy? 

And yet, in spite of this, when we have an instrument given us, 



capable of changing the whole man, great orators and statesmen are 
busy, forsooth, with their heathen charms and nostrums, their seda- 
tives, correctives, or restoratives; as preposterously as if we were to 
build our men-of-war, or conduct our iron-works, on the principles 
approved in Cicero's day. The utmost that Lord Brougham seems to 
propose to himself in the education of the mind, is to keep out bad 
thoughts by means of good — a great object, doubtless, but not so 
great in philosophical conception, as is the destruction of the bad in 
Christian fact. "If it can be a pleasure," he says, in his Discourse upon 
the Objects and Advantages of Science, "if it can be a pleasure to 
gratify curiosity, to know what we were ignorant of, to have our feel- 
ings of wonder called forth, how pure a delight of this very kind does 
natural science hold out to its students! How wonderful are the laws 
that regulate the motions of fluids! Is there anything in all the idle 
books of tales and horrors, more truly astonishing than the fact, that 
a few pounds of water may, by mere pressure, without any machinery, 
by merely being placed in one particular way, produce very irresistible 
force? What can be more strange, than that an ounce weight should 
balance hundreds of pounds by the intervention of a few bars of thin 
iron? Can anything surprise us more than to fmd that the colour 
white is a mixture of all others? that water should be chiefly composed 
of an inflammable substance? Akin to this pleasure of contemplating 
new and extraordinary truths is the gratif cation of a more learned 
curiosity, by tracing resemblances and relations between things which 
to common apprehension seem widely different," etc., etc. And in 
the same way Sir Robert tells us even of a devout curiosity. In all 
cases curiosity is the means, diversion of mind the highest end; and 
though of course I will not assert that Lord Brougham, and certainly 
not that Sir Robert Peel, denies any higher kind of morality, yet 
when the former rises above Benthamism, in which he often indulges, 
into what may be called Brotighaniistn proper, he commonly grasps at 
nothing more real and substantial than these Ciceronian ethics. 

In morals, as in physics, the stream camiot rise higher than its 
source. Christianity raises men from earth, for it comes from heaven; 
but human morality creeps, struts, or frets upon the earth's level, 
without wings to rise. The Knowledge School does not contemplate 
raising man above himself; it merely aims at disposing of his existing 
powers and tastes, as is most convenient, or is practicable under cir- 
cumstances. It finds him, like the victims of the French Tyrant, 



doubled up ill a cage in which he can neither he, stand, sit, nor kneel, 
and its highest desire is to find an attitude in which his unrest may be 
least. Or it finds liim like some musical instrument, of great power 
and compass, but imperfect; from its very structure some keys must 
ever be out of tune, and its object, when ambition is highest, is to 
throw the fault of its nature where least it will be observed. It leaves 
man where it found him — man, and not an Angel — a sinner, not a 
Saint; but it tries to make him look as much like what he is not as ever 
it can. The poor indulge in low pleasures; they use bad language, 
swear loudly and recklessly, laugh at coarse jests, and are rude and 
boorish. Sir Robert would open on them a wider range of thought 
and more intellectual objects, by teaching them science; but what 
warrant will he give us that, if his object could be achieved, what they 
would gain in decency they would not lose in natural huinility and 
faith? If so, he has exchanged a gross fault for a more subtle one. 
"Temperance topics" stop drinking; let us suppose it; but will much 
be gained, if those who give up spirits take to opium? Naturam 
cxpellasfurca, tamen usque recurrct, is at least a heathen truth, and univer- 
sities and hbraries which recur to heathenism may reclaim it from the 
heathen for their motto. 

Nay, everywhere, so far as human nature remains hardly or 
partially Christianized, the heathen law remains in force; as is felt in 
a measure even in the most religious places and societies. Even there, 
where Christianity has power, the venom of the old Adam is not 
subdued. Those who have to do with our Colleges give us their 
experience, that in the case of the young committed to their care, 
external discipline may change the fashionable excess, but cannot allay 
the principle of simiing. Stop cigars, they will take to drinking parties; 
stop drinking, they gamble; stop gambling, and a worse hcense fol- 
lows. You do not get rid of vice by human expedients; you can but 
use them according to circumstances, and in their place, as making the 
best of a bad matter. You must go to a higher source for renovation 
of the heart and of the will. You do but play a sort of "hunt the 
sUpper" with the fault of our nature, till you go to Christianity. 

I say, you must use human methods in their place, and there they are 
useful; but they are worse than useless out of their place. I have no 
fanatical wish to deny to any whatever subject of thought or method 
of reason a place altogether, if it chooses to claim it, in the cultivation 
of the mind. Mr. Bentham may despise verse-making, or Mr. 


Dugald Stewart logic, but the great and true maxim is to sacrifice 
none — to combine, and therefore to adjust, all. All cannot be first, 
and therefore each has its place, and the problem is to find it. It is at 
least not a lighter mistake to make what is secondary first, than to 
leave it out altogether. Here then it is that the Knowledge Socict)', 
Gower Street College, Tamworth Reading Room, Lord Brougham 
and Sir Robert Peel, are all so deplorably mistaken. Christianity, and 
nothing short of it, must be made the element and principle of all 
education. Where it has been laid as the first stone, and acknowledged 
as the governing spirit, it will take up into itself, assimilate, and give 
a character to literature and science. Where Revealed Truth has 
given the aim and direction to Knowledge, Knowledge of all kinds 
will minister to P^evealed Truth. The evidences of Religion, natural 
theology, metaphysics, — or, again, poetry, history, and the classics, — 
or physics and mathematics, may all be grafted into the mind of a 
Christian, and give and take by the grafting. But if in education we 
begin with nature before grace, with evidences before faith, with 
science before conscience, with poetry before practice, we shall be 
doing much the same as if we were to indulge the appetites and pas- 
sions, and turn a deaf ear to the reason. In each case we misplace 
what in its place is a divine gift. If we attempt to effect a moral 
improvement by means of poetry, we shall but mature into a maw^- 
kish, frivolous, and fastidious sentimentahsm; — if by means of argu- 
ment, into a dry, unamiable long-headcdness; — if by good society, 
into a pohshed outside, with hollowness within, in which vice has 
lost its grossness, and perhaps increased its malignity; — if by experi- 
mental science, into an uppish, supercihous temper, much inclined to 
scepticism. But reverse the order of things: put Faith first and Know- 
ledge second; let the University minister to the Church, and then 
classical poetry becomes the type of Gospel truth, and physical science 
a comment on Genesis or Job, and Aristotle changes into Butler, and 
Arcesilas into Berkeley.^ 

Far from recognizing this principle, the teachers of the Knowledge 
School would educate from Natural Theology up to Christianity, and 
would amend the heart through literature and philosophy. Lord 
Brougham, as if fiith came from science, gives out that "henceforth 

^ [On the supremacy of each science in its own field of thought, and the 
encroachments upon it of other sciences, vide the author's "University Educa- 
tion," Disc. 3, 2nd ed., and "University Subjects," Nos. 6, 7, and 10.] 



nothing shall prevail over us to praise or to blame any one for" his 
belief, "which he can no more change than he can the hue of his skin 
or the height of his stature." And Sir Robert, whose profession and 
life give the lie to his philosophy, founds a hbrary into which "no 
works of controversial divinity shall enter," that is, no Christian 
doctrine at all; and he tells us that "an increased sagacity will make 
men not merely believe in the cold doctrines of Natural Religion, but 
that it will so prepare and temper the spirit and understanding that they 
will be better qualified to comprehend the great scheme of human redemp- 
tion.'' And again, Lord Brougham considers that "the pleasures of 
science tend not only to make our lives more agreeable, but better;" 
and Sir Robert responds, that "he entertains the hope that there will 
be the means afforded of useful occupation and rational recreation; 
that men will prefer the pleasures of knowledge above the indulgence 
of sensual appetite, and that there is a prospect of contributing to the 
intellectual and moral improvement of the neighbourhood." 

Can the nineteenth century produce no more robust and creative 
philosophy than this? 

4. Secular Knowledge not the Antecedent of Moral 

Human nature wants recasting, but Lord Brougham is all for tinker- 
ing it. He does not despair of making something of it yet. He is not, 
indeed, of those who think that reason, passion, and whatever else is 
in us, are made right and tight by the principle of self-interest. He 
understands that something more is necessary for man's happiness 
than self-love; he feels that man has affections and aspirations which 
Bentham does not take account of, and he looks about for their 
legitimate objects. Christianity has provided these; but, unhappily, 
he passes them by. He libels them with the name of dogmatism, and 
conjures up instead the phantoms of Glory and Knowledge; idola 
thcatri, as his famous predecessor calls them. "There are idols," says 
Lord Bacon, "which have got into the human mind, from the 
different tenets of pliilosophers, and the perverted laws of demonstra- 



tion. And these we denominate idols of the theatre; because all the 
philosophies that have been hitherto invented or received, are but so 
many stage plays, written or acted, as having shown nothing but 
fictitious and theatrical worlds. Idols of the theatre, or theories, are 
many, and will probably grow much more numerous; for if men had 
not, through many ages, been prepossessed with relij^ion and theology, and 
if civil governments, but particularly monarchies," (and, I suppose, their 
ministers, counsellors, functionaries, inclusive,) "had not been averse to 
innovations of this kind, though but intended, so as to make it dangerous 
and prejudicial to the private fortunes of such as take the bent of 
innovating, not only by depriving them of advantages, but also of 
exposing them to contempt and hatred, there would doubtless have 
been numerous other sects of philosophies and theories, introduced, of 
kin to those that in great variety formerly flourished among 
the Greeks. And these theatrical fables have this in common with 
dramatic pieces, that the fictitious narrative is neater, more elegant 
and pleasing, than the true history." 

I suppose we may readily grant that the science of the day is 
attended by more lively interest, and issues in more entertaining 
knowledge, than the study of the New Testament. Accordingly, 
Lord Brougham fixes upon such science as the great desideratum of 
human nature, and puts aside faith under the nickname of opinion. I 
wish Sir Robert Peel had not fallen into the snare, insulting doctrine 
by giving it the name of "controversial divinity." 

However, it will be said that Sir Robert, in spite of such forms of 
speech, differs essentially from Lord Brougham: for he goes on, in the 
latter part of the Address which has occasioned these remarks, to 
speak of Science as leading to Christianity. "I can never think it 
possible," he says, "that a mind can be so constituted, that after being 
familiarized with the great truth of observing in every object of con- 
templation that nature presents the manifest proofs of a Divine hitcl- 
ligencc, if you range even from the organization of the meanest weed 
you trample upon, or of the insect that lives but for an hour, up to 
the magnificent structure of the heavens, and the still more wonderful 
phenomena of the soul, reason, and conscience ot man; I cannot 
believe that any man, accustomed to such contemplations, can return 
from them with any other feelings than those of enlarged conceptions 
of the Divine Power, and greater reverence for the name of the 
Almighty Creator of the universe." A long and complicated sentence, 



and no unfitting emblem of the demonstration it promises. It sets 
before us a process and deduction. Depend on it, it is not so safe a 
road and so expeditious a journey from premiss and conclusion as Sir 
Robert anticipates. The way is long, and there are not a few half- 
way houses and traveller's rests along it; and who is to warrant that 
the members of the Reading Room and Library will go steadily on to 
the goal he would set before them? And when at length they come 
to "Christianity," pray how do the roads lay between it and "con- 
troversial divinity"? Or, grant the Tamworth readers to begin with 
"Christianity" as well as science, the same question suggests itself, 
What is Christianity? Universal benevolence? Exalted morality? 
Supremacy of law? Conservatism? An age of light? An age of 
reason? — Which of them all? 

Most cheerfully do I render to so religious a man as Sir Robert 
Peel the justice of disclaiming any insinuation on my part, that he has 
any intention at all to put aside Rehgion; yet his words either mean 
nothing, or they do, both on their surface, and when carried into 
effect, mean sometliing very irreligious. 

And now for one plain proof of this. 

It is certain, then, that the multitude of men have neither time nor 
capacity for attending to many subjects. If they attend to one, they 
will not attend to the other; if they give their leisure and curiosity to 
this world, they will have none left for the next. We cannot be 
everything; as the poet says, "noii omnia possumus onmes." We must 
make up our minds to be ignorant of much, if we would know any- 
thing. And we must make our choice between risking Science, and 
risking Religion. Sir Robert indeed says, "Do not believe that you 
have not time for rational recreation. It is the idle man who wants 
time for everything." However, this seems to me rhetoric; and what 
I have said to be the matter of fact, for the truth of which I appeal, not 
to argument, but to the proper judges of facts, — common sense and 
practical experience; and if they pronounce it to be a fact, then Sir 
Robert Peel, little as he means it, does unite with Lord Brougham in 
taking from Christianity v/hat he gives to Science. 

I will make tliis fair offer to both of them. Every member of tlie 
Church Established shall be eligible to the Tamworth Library on one 
condition — that he brings from the "public minister of rehgion," to 
use Sir Robert's phrase, a ticket in witness of his proficiency in 
Christian knowledge. We will have no "controversial divinity" in 



the Library, but a little out of it. If the gentlemen of the Knowledge 
School will but agree to teach town and country Religion first, they 
shall have a carte blanche from me to teach anything or everything else 
second. Not a word has been uttered or intended in these Letters 
against Science; I would treat it, as they do not treat "controversial 
divinity," with respect and gratitude. They caricature doctrine under 
the name of controversy. I do not nickname science infidelity. I call 
it by their own name, "useful and entertaining knowledge;" and I call 
doctrine "Christian knowledge:" and, as thinking Christianity some- 
thing more than useful and entertaining, I want faith to come first, and 
utility and amusement to follow. 

That persons indeed are found in all classes, high and low, busy and 
idle, capable of proceeding from sacred to profane knowledge, is 
undeniable; and it is desirable they should do so. It is desirable that 
talent for particular departments in literature and science should be 
fostered and turned to account, wherever it is found. But what has 
this to do with this general canvass of "a// persons of all descriptions 
without reference to religious creed, who shall have attained the age 
of fourteen"? Why solicit "the working classes, without distinction of 
party, political opinion, or religious profession;" that is, whether they 
have heard of a God or no? Whence these cries rising on our ears, of 
"Let me entreat you!" "Neglect not the opportunity!" "It will not 
be our fault!" "Here is an access for you!" very like the tones of a 
street preacher, or the cad of an omnibus, — httle worthy of a great 
statesman and a religious philosopher? 

However, the Tamworth Reading Room admits of one restriction, 
which is not a little curious, and has no very liberal sound. It seems 
that all ''virtuous women" may be members of the Library; that "great 
injustice would be done to the well-educated and virtuous women of the 
town and neighbourhood" had they been excluded. A very emphatic 
silence is maintained about women not virtuous. What does this 
inean? Does it mean to exclude them, while bad men are admitted? 
Is this accident or design, sinister and insidious, against a portion of 
the community? What has virtue to do with a Reading Room? It is 
to make its members virtuous; it is to "exalt the moral dignity of their 
nature;" it is to provide "charms and temptations" to allure them 
from sensuality and riot. To whom but to the vicious ought Sir 
Robert to discourse about "opportunities," and "access," imd "moral 
improvement;" and who else v/ould prove a fitter experiment, and 



a more glorious triumph, of scientific influences? And yet he shuts 
out all but the well-educated and virtuous. 

Alas, that bigotry should have left the mark of its hoof on the great 
"fundamental principle of the Tamworth Institution"! Sir Robert 
Peel is bound in consistency to attempt its obhteration. But if that is 
impossible, as many v^ill anticipate, why, O why, while he is about 
it, why will he not give us just a little more of it? Cannot we prevail 
on him to modify his principle, and to admit into his library none but 
"well-educated and virtuous" //;c//? 

5. Secular Knowledge not a Principle of Social 

Sir Robert Peel proposes to establish a Library which "shall be open 
to all persons of all descriptions, without reference to political opinion 
or to rehgious creed." He invites those who are concerned in manu- 
factories, or who have many workmen, "without distinction of party, 
political opinions, or religious profession." He promises that "in the 
selection of subjects for public lectures everything calculated to excite 
religious or poHtical animosity shall be excluded." Nor is any "dis- 
cussion on matters connected with religion, pohtics, or local party 
differences" to be permitted in the Reading Room. And he con- 
gratulates himself that he has "laid the foundation of an edifice in 
which men of all political opinions and of all religious feelings may 
unite in furtherance of Knowledge, without the asperities of 
"party feeling." In these statements religious differences are made 
synonymous with "party feehng;" and, whereas the tree is "known 
by its fruit," their characteristic symptoms are felicitously described as 
"asperities," and "animosities." And, in order to teach us more 
precisely what these . differences are worth, they are compared to 
differences between Whig and Tory — nay, even to "local party 
differences;" such, I suppose, as about a municipal election, or a hole- 
and-corner meeting, or a parish job, or a bill in Parhament for a 

But, to give him the advantage of the more honourable parallel of 



the two, are religious principles to be put upon a level even with 
political? Is it as bad to be a republican as an unbeliever? Is it as 
magnanimous to humour a scoffer as to spare an opponent in the 
House? Is a difference about the Reform Bill all one with a difference 
about the Creed? Is it as polluting to hear arguments for Lord Mel- 
bourne as to hear a scoff against the Apostles? To a statesman, indeed, 
like Sir Robert, to abandon one's party is a far greater sacrifice than 
to unparliamentary men; and it would be uncandid to doubt that he 
is rather magnifying politics than degrading Religion in throwing 
them together; but still, when he advocates concessions in theology 
and politics, he must be plainly told to make presents of things that 
belong to him, nor seek to be generous with other people's substance. 
There are entails in more matters than parks and old places. He made 
his politics for himself, but Another made theology. 

Christianity is faith, faith implies a doctrine, a doctrine proposi- 
tions, propositions yes or no, yes or no differences. Differences, then, 
are the natural attendants on Christianity, and you cannot have 
Christianity, and not have differences. When, then. Sir Robert Peel 
calls such differences points of "party feeling," what is this but to 
insult Christianity? Yet so cautious, so correct a man, cannot have 
made such a sacrifice for nothing; nor does he long leave us in doubt 
what is his inducement. He tells us that his great aim is the peace and 
good order of the community, and the easy working of the national 
machine. With this in view, any price is cheap, everything is market- 
able; all impediments are a nuisance. He does not undo for undoing's 
sake; he gains more than an equivalent. It is a mistake, too, to sa)^ that 
he considers all differences of opinion as equal in importance; no, they 
are only equally in the way. He only compares them together where 
they are comparable, — in their common inconvenience to a minister 
of State. They may be as little homogeneous as chalk is to cheese, or 
Macedon to Monmouth, but they agree in interfering with social 
harmony; and, since that harmony is the first of goods and the end of 
life, what is left us but to discard all that disunites us, and to cultivate 
all that may amalgamate? 

Could Sir Robert have set a more remarkable example of self- 
sacrifice than in thus becoming the disciple of his political foe, accept- 
ing from Lord Brougham liis new principle of combination, rejecting 
Faith for the fulcrum of Society, and proceeding to rest it upon 



"I cannot help tliinking," he exclaims at Tamworth, "that by bring- 
ing together in an institution of this /:i/2 J intelligent men of all classes and 
conditions of life, by uniting together, in the committee of tliis 
institution, the gentleman of ancient fainily and great landed posses- 
sions with the skilful mechanic and artificer of good character, I can- 
not help beheving that we are harmonizing the gradations of society, 
and binding men together by a new bond, which will have more than 
ordinary strength on account of the object which unites us." The old 
bond, he seems to say, was Rehgion; Lord Brougham's is Know- 
ledge. Faith, once the soul of social union, is now but the spirit of 
division. Not a single doctrine but is "controversial divinitv^" not an 
abstraction can be imagined (could abstractions constrain), not a 
comprehension projected (could comprehensions connect), but will 
leave out one or other portion or element of the social fabric. We 
must abandon Religion, if we aspire to be statesmen. Once, indeed, 
it was a living power, kindling hearts, leavening them with one idea, 
moulding them on one model, developing them into one pohty. Ere 
now it has been the life of morality: it has given birth to heroes; it has 
welded empire. But another age has come in, and Faith is effete; let 
us submit to what wc cannot change; let us not hang over our dead, 
but bury it out of sight. Seek we out some young and vigorous 
principle, rich in sap, and fierce in life, to give form to elements which 
are fast resolving into their inorganic chaos; and where shall we find 
such a principle but in Knowledge? 

Accordingly, though Sir Robert somewhat chivalrously battles for 
the appointment upon the Book Committee of what he calls two 
"public ministers of religion, holding prominent and responsible 
offices, endowed by the State," and that ex officio, yet he is untrue to 
his new principle only in appearance: for he couples his concession 
with explanations, restrictions, and safeguards quite sufficient to pre- 
vent old Faith becoming insurgent against young Knowledge. First 
he takes liis Vicar and Curate as "conversant with hterary subjects and 
with literary works," and then as having duties "immediately con- 
nected with the moral condition and improvement" of the place. 
Further he admits "it is perfectly right to he jealous of all power held 
by such a tenure:" and he insists on the "fundamental" condition that 
these sacred functionaries shall permit no doctrinal works to be 
introduced or lectures to be delivered. Lastly, he reserves in the 
general body the power of withdrawing this indulgence "if the 



existing checks be not sufficient, and the power be abused," — abused, 
that is, by the vicar and curate; also he desires to secure Knowledge 
from being perverted to ''evil or iimiioral purposes" — such perversion 
of course, if attempted, being the natural antithesis, or pendant, to the 
vicar's contraband introduction of the doctrines of Faith. 

Lord Brougham will make all this clearer to us. A work of high 
interest and varied information, to which I have already referred, is 
attributed to him, and at least is of his school, and in which the 
ingenious author, whoever he is, shows how Knowledge can do for 
Society what has hitherto been supposed the prerogative of Faith. As 
to Faith and its preachers, he had already complimented them at 
Glasgow, as "the evil spirits of tyranny and persecution," and had bid 
them good morning as the scared and dazzled creatures of the "long 
night now gone down the sky." 

"The great truth," he proclaimed in language borrowed from the 
records of faith (for after parsons no men quote Scripture more 
familiarly than Liberals and Whigs), "has {m^iWy gone forth to all the 
ends of the earth, that man shall no more render account to man for 
his belief, over which he has himself no control. Henceforth nothing 
shall prevail on us to praise or to blame any one for that which he can 
no more change than he can the hue of his skin or the height of his 
stature." And then he or his scholar proceeds to his new Vit(V 
Sanctorum, or, as he calls it, "Illustrations of the Pursuit of Know- 
ledge;" and, whereas the badge of Christian saintliness is conflict, he 
writes of the "Pursuit of Knowledge under difficulties;" and, whereas 
this Knowledge is to stand in the place of Religion, he assumes a 
hortatory tone, a species of eloquence in which decidedly he has no 
rival but Sir Robert. "Knowledge," he says, "is happiness, as well as 
power and virtue;" and he demands "the dedication of our faculties" 
to it. "The struggle," he gravely observes, which its disciple "has to 
wage may be a protracted, but it ought not to be a cheerless one: for, 
if he do not relax his exertions, every movement he makes is necessarily 
a step forward, if not towards that distinction which intellectual attain- 
ments sometimes confer, at least to that inward satisfaction and enjoy- 
ment which is always their reward. No one stands in the way of 
another, or can deprive him of any part of his chance, we should 
rather say of his certaint)', of success; on the contrary, they are all 
fellow-worhers, and may materially help each other forward." And he 
enumerates in various places the virtues which adorn the children of 

N— G 97 


Knowledge — ardour united to humility, childlike alacrity, teachable- 
ness, truthfulness, patience, concentration of attention, husbandry of 
time, self-denial, self-command, and heroism. 

Faith, viewed in its history through past ages, presents us with the 
fulfilment of one great idea in particular — that, namely, of an 
aristocracy of exalted spirits, drawn together out of all countries, 
ranks, and ages, raised above the condition of humanity, specimens of 
the capabilities of our race, incentives to rivalry and patterns for 
imitation. This Christian idea Lord Brougham has borrowed for his 
new Pantheon, which is equally various in all attributes and append- 
ages of mind, with this one characteristic in all its specimens, — the 
pursuit of Knowledge. Some of his wortliies are low born, others of 
high degree; some are in Europe, others in the Antipodes; some in the 
dark ages, others in the ages of light; some exercise a voluntary, others 
an involuntary toil; some give up riches, and others gain them; some 
are fixtures, and others adventure much; some are profligate, and 
others ascetic; and some are believers, and others are infidels. 

Alfred, severely good and Christian, takes his place in this new 
hagiology beside the gay and graceful Lorenzo de Medicis; for did 
not the one "import civihzation into England," and was not the 
other "the wealthy and munificent patron of all the hberal arts"? 
Edward VI. and Haroun al Raschid, Dr. Johnson and Dr. Franklin, 
Newton and Protagoras, Pascal and Julian the Apostate, Joseph 
Milner and Lord Byron, Cromwell and Ovid, Bayle and Boyle, 
Adrian pope and Adrian emperor, Lady Jane Grey and Madame 
Roland, — human beings who agreed in nothing but in their humanity 
and in their love of Knowledge, are all admitted by this writer to one 
beatification, in proof of the Catholic character of his substitute for 

The persecuting Marcus is a "good and enlightened emperor," and 
a "dehghtful" spectacle, when "mixing in the religious processions 
and ceremonies" of Athens, "re-building and re-endowing the 
schools," whence St. Paul was driven in derision. The royal Alphery, 
on the contrary, "preferred liis humble parsonage" to the throne of 
the Czars. West was "nurtured among the quiet and gentle affections 
of a Quaker family. Kirke Wliite's "feelings became ardently 
devotional, and he determined to give up his life to the preaching of 
Christianity." Roger Bacon was "a brother of the Franciscan Order, 
at that time the great support and ornament of both Universities." 



Belzoiii seized "the opportunity" of Bonaparte's arrival in Italy to 
"throw off his monastic habit," "its idleness and obscurity," and to 
engage himself as a performer at Astley's. Duval, "a very able anti- 
quarian of the last century," began his studies as a peasant boy, and 
finished tliem in a Jesuits' College. Mr. Davy, "having written a 
system of divinity," effected the printing of it in thirteen years "with 
a press of his own construction," and the assistance of his female 
servant, working oft page by page for twenty-six volumes 8vo, of 
nearly 500 pages each, Raleigh, in spite of "immoderate ambition," 
was "one of the very chief glories of an age crowded with towering 

Nothing comes amiss to this author; saints and simiers, the precious 
and the vile, are torn from their proper homes and recklessly thrown 
together under the category of Knowledge. 'Tis a pity he did not 
extend his view, as Christianity has done, to beings out of sight of 
man. Milton could have helped him to some angelic personages, as 
patrons and guardians of his intellectual temple, who of old time, 
before faith had birth, 

"Apart sat on a hill retired 
In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high 
Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate. 
Passion and apathy, and glory, and shame,— 
Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy." 

And, indeed, he does make some guesses that way, speaking most 
catholically of being "admitted to a fellowship with those loftier 
minds" who "by universal consent held a station apart," and are 
"spoken of reverently," as if their names were not those "of mortal 
men;" anci he speaks of these "benefactors of mankind, when they 
rest from their pious labours, looking down" upon the blessings with 
which their "toils and sufferings have clothed the scene of their former 

Such is the oratory which has fascinated Sir Robert; yet we must 
recollect that in the year 1832, even the venerable Society for Pro- 
moting Christian Knowledge herself, catching its sound, and hearing 
something about sublimity, and imiversality, and brotherhood, and 
effort, and felicity, was beguiled into aii admission of this singularly 
irrehgious work into the list of publications which she had delegated 
to a Committee to select in tisuni laicortnn. 



That a Venerable Society should be caught by the vision of a 
Church Catholic is not wonderful; but what could possess pliilo- 
sophers and statesmen to dazzle her with it, but man's need of some 
such support, and the divine excellence and sovereign virtue of that 
wliich Faith once created? 

6. Secular Knowledge not a Principle of Action 

People say to me, that it is but a dream to suppose that Christianity 
should regain the organic power in human society which once it 
possessed. I cannot help that; I never said it could. I am not a 
politician; I am proposing no measures, but exposing a fallacy, and 
resisting a pretence. Let Benthamism reign, if men have no aspira- 
tions; but do not tell them to be romantic, and then solace them with 
glory; do not attempt by pliilosophy what once was done by religion. 
The ascendency of Faith may be impracticable, but the reign of 
Knowledge is incomprehensible. The problem for statesmen of this 
age is how to educate the masses, and literature and science cannot 
give the solution. 

Not so deems Sir Robert Peel; his firm belief and hope is, "that an 
increased sagacity will administer to an exalted faith; that it will 
make men not merely believe in the cold doctrines of Natural 
Religion, but that it will so prepare and temper the spirit and under- 
standing, that they will be better qualified to comprehend the great 
scheme of human redemption." He certainly tliinks that scientific 
pursuits have some considerable power of impressing religion upon 
the mind of the multitude. I think not, and will now say wh)^ 

Science gives us the grounds or premisses from which religious 
truths are to be inferred; but it does not set about inferring them, 
much less does it reach the inference; — that is not its province. It 
brings before us phenomena, and it leaves us, if we will, to call them 
works of design, wisdom, or benevolence; and further still, if we will, 
to proceed to confess an Intelligent Creator. We have to take its 
facts, and to give them a meaning, and to draw our own conclusions 
from them. First comes Knowledge, then a view, then reasoning, and 


then belief. This is why Science has so httle of a rehgious tendency; 
deductions have no power of persuasion. The heart is commonly 
reached, not through the reason, but through the imagination, by 
means of direct impressions, by the testimony of facts and events, by 
history, by description. Persons influence us, voices melt us, looks 
subdue us, deeds inflame us. Many a man will live and die upon a 
dogma: no man will be a martyr for a conclusion. A conclusion is 
but an opinion; it is not a thing which is, but which ii^c are "certain 
about;" and it has often been observed, that we never say wc arc 
certain without implying that we doubt. To say that a thing must be, 
is to admit that it may not be. No one, I say, will die for his own 
calculations; he dies for realities. This is why a literary rehgion is so 
little to be depended upon; it looks well in fair weather, but its 
doctrines are opinions, and, when called to suffer for them, it slips 
them between its folios, or burns them at its hearth. And this again is 
the secret of the distrust and raillery with which moralists have been 
so commonly visited. They say and do not. Why? Because they are 
contemplating the fitness of things, and they live by the square, when 
they should be realizing their high maxims in the concrete. Now Sir 
Robert thinks better of natural history, chemistry, and astronomy, 
than of such ethics; but they too, what are they more than divinity in 
posse"? He protests against "controversial divinity:" is inferential much 

I have no confidence, then, in philosophers who cannot help being 
religious, and are Christians by implication. They sit at home, and 
reach forward to distances which astonish us; but they hit witliout 
grasping, and are sometimes as confident about shadows as about 
realities. They have worked out by a calculation the lie of a country 
which they never saw, and mapped it by means of a gazetteer; and 
like blind men, though they can put a stranger on his wa}', they can- 
not walk straight themselves, and do not feel it quite their business to 
walk at all. 

Logic makes but a sorry rhetoric with the multitude; first shoot 
round corners, and you may not despair of converting by a syllogism. 
Tell men to gain notions of a Creator from His works, and, if they 
were to set about it (which nobody does), they would be jaded and 
wearied by the labyrinth they were tracing. Their minds would be 
gorged and surfeited by the logical operation. Logicians are more set 
upon concluding rightly, than on right conclusions. The) cannot sec 



the end for the process. Few men have that power of mind which 
may hold fast and firmly a variety of thoughts. We ridicule "men of 
one idea;" but a great many of us are born to be such, and we should 
be happier if we knew it. To most men argument makes the point 
in hand only more doubtful, and considerably less impressive. After 
all, man is uot a reasoning animal; he is a seeing, feeling, contemplat- 
ing, acting animal. He is influenced by what is direct and precise. It 
is very well to freshen our impressions and convictions from physics, 
but to create them we must go elsewhere. Sir Robert Peel "never can 
tliink it possible that a mind can be so constituted, that, after being 
familiarized with the wonderful discoveries which have been made in 
every part of experimental science, it can retire from such contempla- 
tions without more enlarged conceptions of God's providence, and a 
higher reverence for His name." If he speaks of religious minds, he 
perpetrates a truism; if of irreligious, he insinuates a paradox. 

Life is not long enough for a religion of inferences; we shall never 
have done beginning, if we determine to begin with proof We shall 
ever be laying our foundations; we shall turn theology into evidences, 
and divines into textuaries. We shall never get at our first principles. 
Resolve to believe nothing, and you must prove your proofs and 
analyze your elements, sinking further and further, and finding "in 
the lowest depth a lower deep," till you come to the broad bosom of 
scepticism. I would rather be bound to defend the reasonableness of 
assuming that Christianity is true, than to demonstrate a moral 
governance from the physical world. Life is for action. If we insist 
on proofs for every tiling, we shall never come to action: to act you 
must assume, and that assumption is faith. 

Let no one suppose that in saying this I am maintaining that all 
proofs are equally difficult, and all propositions equally debatable. 
Some assumptions are greater than others, and some doctrines involve 
postulates larger than others, and more numerous. I only say that 
impressions lead to action, and that reasonings lead from it. Know- 
ledge of premisses, and inferences upon them, — this is not to live. It 
is very well as a matter of liberal curiosity and of philosophy to 
analyze our modes of thought; but let this come second, and when 
there is leisure for it, and then our examinations will in many ways 
even be subservient to action. But if we commence with scientific 
knowledge and argumentative proof, or lay any great stress upon it 
as the basis of personal Christianity, or attempt to make man moral 



and religious by Libraries and Museums, let us in consistency take 
chemists for our cooks, and mineralogists for our masons. 

Now I wish to state all this as matter of fact, to be judged by the 
candid testimony of any persons whatever. Why we are so con- 
stituted that Faith, not Knowledge or Argument, is our principle of 
action, is a question with which I have nothing to do; but I thmk it 
is a fact, and if it be such, we must resign ourselves to it as best we 
may, unless we take refuge in the intolerable paradox, that the mass 
of men are created for nothing, and are meant to leave life as they 
entered it. So well has this practically been understood in all ages of 
the world, that no Religion has yet been a Religion of physics or of 
philosophy. It has ever been synonymous with Revelation. It never 
has been a deduction from what we know: it has ever been an asser- 
tion of what we are to believe. It has never lived in a conclusion; it 
has never been a message, or a history, or a vision. No legislator or 
priest ever dreamed of educating our moral nature by science or by 
argument. There is no difference here between true Religions and 
pretended. Moses was instructed, not to reason from the creation, 
but to work miracles. Christianity is a history supernatural, and 
almost scenic: it tells us what its Author is, by telling us what He has 
done. I have no wish at all to speak otherwise than respectfully of 
conscientious Dissenters, but I have heard it said by those w^io were 
not their enemies, and who had known much of their preaching, that 
they had often heard narrow-minded and bigoted clegymen, and 
often Dissenting ministers of a far more intellectual cast; but that 
Dissenting teaching came to nothing, — that it was dissipated in 
thoughts which had no point, and inquiries which converged to no 
centre, that it ended as it began, and sent away its hearers as it found 
them; — w^hereas the instruction in the Church, with all its defects and 
mistakes, comes to some end, for it started from some beginning. 
Such is the difference between the dogmatism of faith and the 
speculations of logic. 

Lord Brougham himself, as we have already seen, has recognized 
the force of this principle. He has not left his philosophical religion 
to argument; he has committed it to the keeping of the imagination. 
Why should he depict a great repubhc of letters, and an intellectual 
Pantheon, but that he feels that instances and patterns, not logical 
reasonings, are the hving conclusions which alone have a hold over 
the affections, or can form the character? 



7. Secular Knowledge without Personal Religion 
tends to Unbelief 

When Sir Robert Peel assures us from the Town-hall at Tamworth 
that physical science must lead to reUgion, it is no bad compliment to 
him to say that he is unreal. He speaks of what he knows nothing 
about. To a religious man like him, Science has ever suggested 
religious thoughts; he colours the phenomena of physics with the 
hues of his own mind, and mistakes an interpretation for a deduction. 
"I am sanguine enough to believe," he says, "that that superior 
sagacity which is most conversant with the course and constitution of 
Nature will be first to turn a deaf ear to objections and presumptions 
against Revealed Religion, and to acknowledge the complete 
harmony of the Christian Dispensation with all that Reason, assisted 
by Revelation, tells us of the course and constitution of Nature." 
Now, considering that we are all of us educated as Christians from 
infancy, it is not easy to decide at this day whether Science creates 
Faith, or only confirms it; but we have this remarkable fact in the 
history of heathen Greece against the former supposition, that her 
most eminent empirical philosophers were atheists, and that it was 
their atheism which was the cause of their eminence. "The natural 
philosophies of Democritus and others," says Lord Bacon, ''who allow 
no God or mind in the frame of things, but attribute the structure of 
the universe to infinite essays and trials of nature, or what they call 
fate or fortune, and assigned the causes of particular things to the 
necessity of matter, without any intermixture of final causes, seem, as far 
as we can judge from the remains of their philosophy, nnich more solid, 
and to have^onc deeper into nature, with regard to physical causes, than 
the pliilosophies of Aristotle or Plato: and this only because they 
never meddled with final causes, which the others were perpetually 

Lord Bacon gives us both the fact and the reason for it. Physical 
philosophers are ever inquiring whence things are, not why; referring 
them to nature, not to mind; and thus they tend to make a system a 
substitute for a God. Each pursuit or calling has its own dangers, 
and each numbers among its professors men who rise superior to 
them. As the soldier is tempted to dissipation, and the merchant to 
acquisitiveness, and the lawyer to the sophistical, and the statesman 



to the expedient, and the country clergyman to ease and comfort, yet 
there are good clergymen, statesmen, lawyers, merchants, and 
soldiers, notwithstanding; so there are religious experimentalists, 
though physics, taken by themselves, tend to infidcHty; but to have 
recourse to physics to make men religious is hkc recommending a 
canonry as a cure for the gout, or giving a youngster a commission 
as a penance for irregularities. 

The whole framework of Nature is confessedly a tissue of ante- 
cedents and consequents; we may refer all things forwards to design, 
or backwards on a physical cause. La Place is said to have considered 
he had a formula vv^hich solved all the motions of the solar system; 
shall we say that those motions came from this formula or from a 
Divine Fiat? Shall we have recourse for our theory to physics or to 
theology? Shall we assume Matter and its necessary properties to be 
eternal, or Mind with its divine attributes? Does the sun shine to 
warm the earth, or is the earth warmed because the sun shines? The 
one hypothesis will solve the phenomena as well as the other. Say not 
it is but a puzzle in argument, and that no one ever felt it in fact. So 
far from it, I believe that the study of Nature, when religious feeling 
is away, leads the mind, rightly or wrongly, to acquiesce in the 
atheistic theory, as the simplest and easiest. It is but parallel to that 
tendency in anatomical studies, which no one will deny, to solve all 
the phenomena of the human frame into material elements and 
powers, and to dispense with the soul. To those who are conscious 
of matter, but not conscious of mind, it seems more rational to refer 
all things to one origin, such as they know, than to assume the 
existence of a second origin such as they know not. It is Religion, 
then, which suggests to Science its true conclusions; the facts come 
from Knowledge, but the principles come of Faith. ^ 

There are two ways, then, of reading Nature — as a machine and as 
a work. If we come to it with the assumption that it is a creation, we 
shall study it with awe; if assuming it to be a system, with mere 
curiosity. Sir Robert does not make this distinction. He subscribes 
to the belief that the man "accustomed to such contemplations, struck 
with awe by the manifold proofs of infinite power and infmite wisdom, 

^ [This is too absolute, if it is to be taken to mean that the legitimate, and 
what may be called the objective, conclusion from the fact of Nature viewed 
in the concrete is not in favour of the being and providence of God. — Vide 
"Essay on Assent," pp. 336, 345, 369, and "Univ. Scrm." p. 194.] 



will yield more ready and hearty assent — yes, the assent of the 
heart, and not only of the understanding, to the pious exclamation, 
*0 Lord, how glorious are Thy works!' " He considers that greater 
insight into Nature will lead a man to say, "How great and wise is the 
Creator, who has done this !" True: but it is possible that his thoughts 
may take the form of "How clever is the creature who has discovered 
it!" and self-conceit may stand proxy for adoration. This is no idle 
apprehension. Sir Robert himself, religious as he is, gives cause for 
it; for the first reflection that rises in his mind, as expressed in the 
above passage, before his notice of Divine Power and Wisdom, is, 
that "the man accustomed to such contemplations will feel the moral 
dignity of his nature exalted." But Lord Brougham speaks out. "The 
delight," he says, "is inexpressible o£ being able to follow, as it were, 
with our eyes, the marvellous works of the Great Architect of 
Nature." And more clearly still: "One of the most gratifying treats 
which science affords us is the knowledge of the extraordinary powers with 
which the human mind is endowed. No man, until he has studied 
philosophy, can have a just idea of the great things for which Provid- 
ence has fitted his understanding, the extraordinary disproportion 
which there is between his natural strength and the powers of his 
mind, and the force which he derives from these powers. When we 
survey the marvellous truths of astronomy, we are first of all lost in 
the feeling of immense space, and of the comparative insignificance 
of this globe and its inhabitants. But there soon arises a sense oj 
gratification and of new wonder at perceiving how so insignificant a 
creature has been able to reach such a knowledge of the unbounded 
system of the universe." So, this is the religion wc are to gain 
from the study of Nature; how miserable! The god we attain is 
our own mind; our veneration is even professedly the worship of 

The truth is that the system of Nature is just as much connected 
with Religion, where minds are not religious, as a watch or a steam- 
carriage. The material world, indeed, is infinitely more wonderful 
than any human contrivance; but wonder is not religion, or we should 
be worshipping our railroads. What the physical creation presents to 
us in itself is a piece of machinery, and when men speak of a Divine 
Intelligence as its Author, this god of theirs is not the Living and 
True, unless the spring is the god of a watch, or steam the creator of 
the engine. Their idol, taken at advantage (though it is not an idol, 

1 06 


for they do not worship it), is the animating principle of a vast and 
comphcated system; it is subjected to laws, and it is connatural and 
co-extensive with matter. Well does Lord Brougliani call it "the 
great architect of nature;" it is an instinct, or a soul of the world, or 
a vital power; it is not the Almighty God.^ 

It is observable that Lord Brougham does not allude to any relation 
as existing between his qod and ourselves. He is filled with awe, it 
seems, at the powers of the human mind, as displayed in their analysis 
of the vast creation. Is not this a fitting time to say a word about 
gratitude towards Him who gave them? Not a syllable. What vv^e 
gain from his contemplation of Nature is "a gratifying treat," the 
knowledge of the "great things for which Providence has fitted man's 
understanding;" our admiration terminates in man; it passes on to no 
prototype.^ I am not quarrelling with his result as illogical or 
unfair; it is but consistent with the principles with which he started. 
Take the system of Nature by itself, detached from the axioms of 
Religion, and I am willing to confess — nay, I have been expressly 
urging — that it does not force us to take it for more than a system; but 
why, then, persist in calling the study of it religious, when it can be 
treated, and is treated, thus athcistically? Say that Religion hallows 
the study, not that the study is a true ground of Religion. The 
essence of Rehgion is the idea of a Moral Governor, and a particular 
Providence; now let me ask, is the doctrine of moral governance and 
a particular providence conveyed to us through the physical sciences 
at all? Woulci they be physical sciences if they treated of morals? Can 
physics teach moral matters without ceasing to be physics? But are 
not virtue and vice, and responsibility, and reward and punishment, 
anything else than moral matters, and are they not of the essence of 
Religion? In what department, then, of physics are they to be found? 
Can the problems and principles they involve be expressed in the 
differential calculus? Is the galvanic battery a whit more akin to con- 
science and will, than the mechanical powers? What we seek is what 
concerns us, the traces of a Moral Governor; even religious minds 
cannot discern these in the physical sciences; astronomy witnesses 
divine power, and physics divine skill; and all of them divine benefi- 
cence; but which teaches of divine holiness, truth, justice, or mercy? 
Is that much of a Religion which is silent about duty, sin, and its 

^ [Vide "University Education," Disc, i (2nd Ed.).] 
^ [Vide "Essays," vol. i. p. 37, etc.] 



remedies? Was there ever a Religion which was without the idea of 
an expiation? 

Sir Robert Peel tells us, that physical science imparts "pleasure and 
consolation" on a death-bed. Lord Brougham confmes himself to the 
"gratifying treat;" but Sir Robert ventures to speak of "consolation." 
Now, if we are on trial in this life, and if death be the time when our 
account is gathered in, is it at all serious or real to be talking of 
"consoling" ourselves at such a time with scientific subjects? Are 
these topics to suggest to us the thought of the Creator or not? If not, 
are they better than story books, to beguile the mind from what lies 
before it? But, if they are to speak of Him, can a dying man fmd rest 
in the mere notion of his Creator, when he knows Him also so awfully 
as his Moral Governor and his Judge? Meditate indeed on the 
wonders of Nature on a death-bed ! Rather stay your liLinger with 
corn grown in Jupiter, and warm yourself by the Moon. 

But enough on this most painful portion of Sir Robert's Address. 
As I am coming to an end, I suppose I ought to sum up in a few 
words what I have been saying. I consider, then, that intrinsically 
excellent and noble as are scientific pursuits, and worthy of a place in 
a Hberal education, and fruitful in temporal benefits to the com- 
munity, still they arc not, and cannot be, the instrimicnt of an ethical 
training; that physics do not supply a basis, but only materials for 
religious sentiment; that knowledge does but occupy, does not form 
the mind; that apprehension of the unseen is the only known principle 
capable of subduing moral evil, educating the multitude, and organiz- 
ing society; and that, whereas man is bom for action, action flows not 
from inferences, but from impressions, — not from reasonings, but 
from Faith. 

That Sir Robert would deny these propositions I am far from con- 
tending; I do not even contend that he has asserted the contrary at 
Tamworth. It matters little to me whether he spoke boldly and 
intelligibly, as the newspapers represent, or guarded his strong sayings 
with the contradictory matter with which they are intercalated in his 
own report. In either case the drift and the effect of his Address are 
the same. He has given liis respected name to a sophistical School, 
and condescended to mimic the gestures and tones of Lord Broug- 
ham. How melancholy is it that a man of such exemplary life, such 
cultivated tastes, such political distinction, such Parliamentary tact, 
and such varied experience, should have so Uttle confidence in him- 



self, SO little faith in his own principles, so little hope of sympathy in 
others, so little heart for a great venture, so little of romantic aspira- 
tion, and of firm resolve, and stern diitifulness to the Unseen! How 
sad that he who might have had the affections of many, should have 
thought, in a day hke this, that a Statesman's praise lay in preserving 
the mean, not in aiming at the high; that to be safe was his first merit 
and to kindle enthusiasm his most disgraceful blunder! How pitiable 
that such a man should not have understood that a body without a 
soul has no life, and a political party without an idea, no unity! 

February, 1841. 



Loss and Gain, published anonymously in 1848 when New- 
man was in his third year as a CathoUc, was meant to compete 
with the novels about religious converts published during the 
1840's. Several of them had Oxford and its surroundings for 
their settmg and along with Loss and Gain began a vogue, which 
novelists do not seem yet to have exhausted, for placing a story 
in Oxford, and to which, in their way, Matthew Arnold's 
"Scholar Gipsy", and "Thyrsis" contribute. 

The text printed below is that of the first edition. I do not 
know that Newman revised it for later editions. 

Loss and Gain 

Part I 

Charles Reding was the only son of a clergyman, who was in 

€ session of a valuable benefice in a midland county. His fatjier 
;nded him) for orders, and sent him at a proper age to a public 
ool. He had long revolved in his mind the respective advantages 
and disadvantages of public and private education, and had decided 
in favour of the former. "Seclusion," he said, "is no security for 
virtue. There is no telling what is in a boy's heart; he may look as 
open and happy as usual, and be as kind and attentive, when there is 
a great deal wrong going on within. The h eart is a secret with its 
Maker; no one on earth can hope to get at it, or to touch it. I have a 
cure of souls; what do I really know of my parishioners? nothing; 
their hearts are sealed books to me. And this dear boy, he comes close 
to me; he throv/s his arms round me; but his soul is as much out of 
my sight as if he were at the Antipodes. I am not accusing him of 
reserve, dear fellow; his very love and reverence for me keep him 
in a sort of charmed solitude. I cannot expect to get at the bottom of 

'Each in his hidden sphere of bliss or woe. 
Our hermit spirits dwell.' 

It is our lot here below. No one on earth can know Charles's secret 
thoughts. DkLl giiard him here at home ever so well, yet, in due^ 
time, it might be found that a serpent had crept into the Eden of his 
innocence. Boys do not fully know what is good and what is evil; 
they do wrong things at first almost innocently. Novelty hides vice 
from them; there is no one to warn them or give them rules; and 
they become slaves of sin, while they are learning what sin is. They 

N — H 113 


go to the University, and suddenly plunge into excesses, the greater in 
proportion to their inexperience. And besides all this, I am not equal 
to the task of forming so active and inquisitive a mind as his. He 
already asks questions which I know not how to answer. So he shall 
go to a public school. There he will get discipline at least, even if he 
has more of trial; at least he will gain habits of self-command, man- 
liness, and circumspection; he will learn to use his eyes, and will fmd 
materials to use them upon; and thus will be gradually trained for the 
liberty which, any how, he must have when he goes to College." 

This was the more necessary, because, with many high excellences, 
Charles was naturally timid and retiring, over-sensitive, and, though 
Jiyely and ^cheerful, yet not without a tinge of melancholy in his 
■Qharajfter,.-which sometimes degenerated into mawkislinessv 

Tq, Eton^' then, he went; and there had the good fortune to fall into 
the hands of an excellent tutor, who, while he instructed him in the 
old Church-of-England principles of Mant and Doyley, gave his 
mind a religious impression, which secured him against the allure- 
ments of bad company, whether at the school itself, or afterwards at 
Oxford. To that celebrated seat of learning he was in due time trans- 
ferred, being entered at St. Saviour's College; and he is in his sixth 
term from matriculation, and his fourth of residence, at the time our 
story opens. 

At Oxford, it is needless to say, he had found a great number of his 
schoolfellojys; but, it so happened, had found very few friends among 
them. ^S omej^ ^ere too^ay for him, and he had avoided them;^th^5^ 
with whom heTiad^en intimate at Eton, having high connexions, 
had fairly cut him on coming into residence, or, being entered at 
other Colleges, had lost sight of him. Almost everything depends at 
Oxford, in the matter of acquaintance, on proximity of rooms. You 
choose your friend, not so much by your tastes, as by your staircase. 
There is a story of a London tradesman who lost custom, after beauti- 
fying his premises, because his entrance went up a step; and we all 
know how great is the difference between open and shut doors when 
we walk along a street of shops. In a University, a youth's hours are 
portioned out to him. A regular man gets up and goes to chapel, 
breakfasts, gets up his lectures, goes to lecture, walks, dines: there is 
little to induce him to mount any staircase but his own; and if he 
docs so, ten to one he fmds the friend from home whom he is seek- 
ing; not to say that freshmen, who naturally have common feelings 



and interests, as naturally are allotted a staircase in common. _ And 
thus it was that Charles Reding was brought across William Sheffield, 
who had come into residence the same term as himself. 

The minds of young people are phable and elastic, and easily 
accommodate themselves to any one they fall in with. They find 
grounds of attraction both where they agree with another and where 
they differ: what is congenial to themselves creates sympathy; what is 
correlative, or supplemental, creates admiration and esteem. And 
what is thus begun, is often continued in after-life by the force of 
habit and the claims of memory. Thus, in the selection of friends, 
chance often does for us as much as the most careful selection could 
have effected. What was the character and degree of that friendship 
which sprang up between the freshmen, Reding and Sheffield, we 
need not here minutely explain: it will be enough to say, that what 
they had in common was freshmanship, good talents, and the back 
staircase; and that they differed in this: that Sheffield had lived a gooxl 
deal with people older than himself, had read much in a desultory 
way, and easily picked up opinions and facts, especially on con- 
troversies of the day, without laying any thing very much to heart; 
tliat he was ready, clear-sighted, unembarrassed, and somewhat for- 
ward;— Charles, on the other hand, had little knowledge as yet of 
4)rinciples or their bearings, but understood more deeply than 
Sheffield, and held more practically what he had once received; he was 
gentle and affectionate, and easily led by others, except when duty 
clearly interfered. It should be added, that he had fallen in with 
various religious denominations in his father's parish, and had a 
general, though not a systematic, knowledge of their tenets. What 
they were besides, will be seen as our narrative advances. 


It was a httle past one p.m., when Sheffield, passing Charles's door, 
saw it open. The college-servant had just entered with the usual half- 
commons for luncheon, and was employed in making up the fire. 
Sheffield followed him in, and found Charles in his cap ;ind gown, 
lounging on the arm of his easy chair, and eating his bread and cheese. 
Sheffield asked him if he slept, as wtH as ate and drank, "accoutred as 



he was." "I am just going for a turn into(the Meadow,'' said Charles; 
"this is to me the best time of the yc.3iT^~iTttnFforiiiosissintus anims; 
every tiling is beautiful; the laburnums are out, and the may. There 
is a greater variety of trees there than in any place I know here- 
abouts; and the planes are so touching just now, with their small 
multitudinous green bands, half opened; and there are two or three 
such fine dark willows stretching over the Chcrwell; I think some 
Dryad inhabits them: and as you wind along, just over your right 
shoulder is the Long Walk, with the Oxford buildings seen between 
the elms. They say there are dons here who recollect when it was 
unbroken, nay, when you might walk under it in hard rain, and get 
no wet. I know I got drenched there the other day." 

Sheffield laughed, and said that Charles must put on his beaver, 
and walk with him a different way. He wanted a good walk; his 
head was stupid from his lectures; that oldjennings prosed so awfully 
upon Paley, it made him quite ill. He had talked of the Apostles as 
"neither deceivers nor deceived," of their "sensible miracles," and of 
their "dying for their testimony," till he did not know whether he 
himself was an ens phYsiologicuin or a totum metaphysiciuui, when 
Jennings had cruelly asked him to repeat Paley 's argument; and 
because he had not given it in Jennings's words, friend Jennings had 
pursed up his lips, and gone through the whole again; so intent, in his 
wooden enthusiasm, on his own analysis of it, that he did not hear the 
clock strike the hour; and, in spite of the men's shuffling their feet, 
blowing their noses, and looking at their watches, on he had gone for 
a good twenty minutes past the time; and would have been going 
on even then, he verily believed, but for an interposition only 
equalled by that of the geese at the Capitol. For that, when he had got 
about half through liis recapitulation, and was stopping at the end of 
a sentence to see the impression he was making, that uncouth fellow, 
Lively, moved by what happy inspiration he did not know, suddenly 
broke in, apropos of nothing, nodding his head, and speaking in a 
clear cackle, with, "Pray, sir, what is your opinion of the infalhbility 
of the Pope?'* Upon which every one but Jemiings did laugh out; 
but he, au contrairc, began to look very black; and no one can tell 
what would have happened, had he not cast his eyes by accident on 
his watch, on which he coloured, closed his book, and instanter sent 
the whole lecture out of the room. 

Charles laughed in liis turn, but added: "Yet, I assure you, Sheffield, 



that Jennings, stiff and cold as he seems, is, I do beheve, a very good 
fellow at bottom. He has before now spoken to me with a good deal 
of feeling, and has gone out of his way to do me favours. I see poor 
bodies coming to him for charity continually; and they say that his 
sermons at Holy Cross are excellent." Sheffield said he liked people 
to be natural, and hated that donnish manner. What good could it do? 
and what did it mean? "That is what I call bigotry," answered 
Charles; "I am for taking every one for what he is, and not for what 
he is not: one has this excellence, another that; no one is every thing. 
Why should we not drop what we don't like, and admire what we 
like? This is the only way of getting through life, the only true 
wisdom, and surely our duty into the bargain." Sheffield thought 
this regular prose, and unreal. "We must," he said, "have a standard 
of things, else one thing is as good as another. But I can't stand here 
all day," he continued, "when we ought to be walking. And he took 
off Charles's cap, and placing his hat on him instead, said, "Come, let 
us be going." "Then must I give up my Meadow?" said Charles. 
"Of course you must," answered Sheffield; "you must take a beaver 
walk. I^ant you to go as far as Oxley, a village some little way out, 
all the vicars of which, sooner or later, are made Bishops, perhaps 
even walking there may do us some good." 

The friends set out, from hat to boot in the most approved Oxford 
bandbox cut of trimness and prettiness. Sheffield was turning into the 
High Street, when Reding stopped him: "It always annoys me," he 
said, "to go down High Street in beaver; one is sure to meet a 
Proctor." "All those University dresses are great fudge," answered 
Sheffield; "how are we the better for them? they are mere outside, 
and nothing else. Besides, our gown is so hideously ugly." "Well, 
I don't go along with your sweeping condemnation," answered 
Charles; "tliis is a great place, and should have a dress. I declare, 
when I first saw the procession of Heads at St. Mary's, it was quite 
moving. First — " "0£ course the pokers," interrupted Shcfticld — 
"First the organ, and every one rising; then the Vice-Chancellor in 
red, and his bow to the preacher, who turns to the pulpit; then all 
the Heads in order; and lastly the Proctors. Meanwhile, you see the 
head of the preacher slowly mounting up the steps; when he gets in, 
he shuts-to the door, looks at the organ-loft to catch the psalm, and 
the voices strike up." Sheffield laughed, and then said, "Well, I 
confess I agree with you in your instance. The preacher is, or is 



supposed to be, a person of talent; he is about to hold forth; the 
divines, the students of a great University are all there to hsten. The 
pageant does but fitly represent the great moral fact v^^hich is before 
us; I understand tliis. I don't call this fudge; w^hat I mean by fudge 
is, outside v^ithout inside. Now^ I must say, the sermon itself, and not 
the least of all the prayer before it — what do they call it?" "The 
bidding prayer," said Reding. "Well, both sermon and prayer are 
often arrant fudge. I don't often go to University sermons, but I have 
gone often enough not to go again w^ithout compulsion. The last 
preacher I heard v^as from the country. Oh, it was wonderful! He 
began at the pitch of his voice, *Ye shall pray.' What stuff! *Ye shall 
pray;' because old Latimer or Jewell said, 'Ye shall praie,' therefore 
we must not say, 'Let us pray.' Presently he brought out," continued 
Sheffield, assuming a pompous up-and-down tone, " 'especially for 
that pure and apostolical branch of it established,' — here the man rose 
on his toes, 'estabhshed in these dominions.' Next came, 'for our 
Sovereign Lady Victoria, Queen, Defender of the Faith, in all causes 
and over all persons, ecclesiastical as well as civil, within these her 
dominions, supreme — an awful pause, with an audible fall of the 
sermon-case on the cushion; as though nature did not contain, as if 
the human mind could not sustain, a bigger thought. Then followed, 
'the pious and munificent founder,' in the same twang, 'of All 
Saints' and Leicester Colleges.' But his chief-d' oeuvre was his emphatic 
recognition o£'all the doctors, both the proctors,' as if the numerical 
antithesis had a graphic power, and threw those excellent personages 
into a charming tableau vivant^ Charles was amused at all this; but he 
said in answer, that he never heard a sermon, but it was his own 
fault if he did not gain good from it; and he quoted the words of his 
father, who, when he one day asked him if so-and-so had not 
preached a very good sermon, "My dear Charles," his father had 
said, "all sermons are good." The words, simple as they were, had 
retained a hold on his memory. 

Meanwhile they had proceeded down the forbidden High Street, 
aifd^ere crossing the bridge, when, on the opposite side, they saw 
before them a tall, upright man, whom Shefiield had no difficult}'' 
in recognizing as a batchelor of Nun's Hall, and a bore at least of the 
second magnitude. He was in cap and gown, but went on his way, 
as if intending, in that extraordinary guise, to take a country walk. 
He took the path which they were going themselves, and they tried 



to keep behind him; but they walked too briskly, and he too leisurely, 
to allow of that. It is very difficult duly to delineate a bore in a 
narrative, for the very reason that he is a bore. A talc must aim at 
condensation, but a bore acts in solution. It is only on the long-run 
that he is ascertained. Then, indeed, he is felt; he is oppressive; like 
the sirocco, which a native detects at once, while a foreigner is often 
at fault. Tenet, occiditque. Did you hear him make but one speech, 
perhaps you would say he was a pleasant well-informed man; but 
when he never comes to an end, or has one and the same prose every 
time you meet him, or keeps you standing till you are fit to sink, or 
holds you fast when you wish to keep an engagement, or hinders 
your listening to important conversation, — then there is no mistake, 
the truth bursts on you, apparent dim fades, you are in the clutches 
of a bore. You may yield, or you may flee; you cannot conquer. 
Hence it is clear that a bore caimot be represented in a story, or the 
story would be the bore as much as he. The reader then must believe 
this upright Mr. Bateman to be, what otherwise he might not dis- 
cover, and thank us for our consideration in not proving as well as 
asserting it. 

Sheffield bowed to him courteously, and would have proceeded 
on his way; but Bateman, as became his nature, would not suffer it; 
he seized him. "Are you disposed," he said, "to look into the pretty 
chapel we are restoring on the common? It is quite a gem — in the 
purest style of the I4tli century. It was in a most filthy condition, a 
mere cow-house; but we have made a subscription, and set it to 
rights." "We are bound for Oxley," Sheffield answered; "you 
would be taking us out of our way." "Not a bit of it," said Bateman; 
"it's not a stone's throw from the road; you must not refuse me. I'm 
sure you'll like it." He proceeded to give the history of the chapel — 
all it had been, all it might have been, all it was not, all it was to be. 
"It is to be a real specimen of a Catholic chapel," he said; "we mean 
to make the attempt of getting the Bishop to dedicate it to the Royal 
Martyr — why should not we have our St. Charles as well as the 
Romanists? — and it will be quite sweet to hear the vesper-bell tolling 
over the sullen moor every evening, in all weathers, and amid all 
the changes and chances of this mortal hfe." Sheffield asked what 
congregation they expected to collect at that hour? "That's a low 
view," answered Bateman; "it does not signify at all. In real Catholic 
churches the number of the congregation is nothing to the purpose; 



service is for those who come, not for those who stay away." "Well," 
said Sheffield, "I understand what that means, when a Roman 
Catholic says it; for a priest is supposed to offer sacrifice, which he can 
do without a congregation as well as with one. And then, again, 
Catholic chapels often stand over the bodies of martyrs, or on some 
place of miracle, as a record; but our service is 'Common Prayer,' 
and how can you have that without a congregation?" 

Bateman rephed that, even if members of the University did not 
drop in, which he expected, at least the bell would be a memento far 
and near. "Ah, I see," retorted Sheffield, "the use will be the reverse 
of what you said just now; it is not for those that come, but for 
those who stay away. The congregation is outside, not inside; it's 
an outside concern. I once saw a tall church-tower — so it appeared 
'from the road; but on the sides you saw it was but a thin wall, 
made to look like a tower, in order to give the church an imposing 
effect. Do run up such a bit of a wall, and put the bell in it." 
"There's another reason," answered Bateman, "for restoring the 
chapel, quite independent of the service. It has been a chapel from 
time immemorial, and was consecrated by our Catholic forefathers." 
Sheffield argued, that this would be as good a reason for keeping up 
the mass as for keeping up the chapel. "We do keep up the mass," 
said Bateman; "we offer our mass every Sunday according to the rite 
of the English Cyprian, as honest Peter HeyHn calls him; what would 
you have more?" Whether Sheffield understood this or no, at least 
it was beyond Charles. Was the Common Prayer the EngHsh mass, 
or the communion-service, or the Litany, or the sermon, or any part 
of these? or were Bateman's words really a confession that there 
were clergymen who actually said the Popish mass once a week? 
Bateman's precise meaning, however, is lost to posterity; for they 
had by this time arrived at the door of the chapel. It had once been 
the chapel of an almshouse; a small farmliouse stood near; but, for 
population, it was plain no "church accommodation" was wanted. 
Before entering, Charles hung back, and whispered to his friend that he 
did not know Bateman. An introduction, in consequence, took place. 
"Reding of St. Saviour's, Bateman of Nun's;" after which ceremony, 
in place of holy water, they managed to enter the chapel in company. 

It was as pretty a building as Bateman had led them to expect, and 
very prettily done up. There was a stone altar in the best style, a 
credence-table, a piscina, what looked like a tabernacle, and a couple 



of handsome brass candlesticks. Charles asked the use of the piscina, 
— he did not know its name, — and was told that there was always a 
piscina in the old churches of England, and that there could be no 
proper restoration without it. Next he asked the meaning of the 
beautifully wrought closet or recess above the altar; and received for 
answer, that "our sister churches of the Roman obedience always had 
a tabernacle for reserving the consecrated bread." Here Charles was 
brought to a stand: on which Sheffield asked the use of the niches; 
and was told by Bateman, that images of saints were forbidden by 
the canon, but that his friends, in all these matters, did what they 
could. Lastly, he asked the meaning of the candlesticks; and was told 
that, Catholicly-minded as their Bishop was, they had some fear lest 
he would object to lights in service — at least at first; but it was plain 
that the use of the candlesticks was to hold candles. Having had their 
fill of gazing and admiring, they turned to proceed on their walk, 
l)ut could not get off an invitation to breakfast, in a few days, at 
Bateman's lodgings in the Turk 


Neither of the friends had what are called views in religion: by which 
expression we do not here signify that neither had taken up a certain 
line of opinion, though this was true also; but that neither of them 
— how could they at their age? — had placed his religion on an 
intellectual basis. It may be as well to state more distinctly what a 
"view" is, what it is to be "viewy," and what is the state of those who 
have no "views." When persons, then, for the first time look upon 
the world of politics or religion, all that they find there meets their 
mind's eye as a landscape addresses itself for the first time to a person 
who has just gained his bodily sight. One thing is as far ofFas another; 
there is no perspective. The connexion of fact with fact, truth with 
truth, the bearing of fact upon truth, and truth upon fact, what leads 
to what, what are points primary and what secondary, — all this they 
have yet to learn. It is all a new science to them, and they do not even 
know their ignorance of it. Moreover, the world of to-day has no 
connexion in their minds with the world of yesterday; time is not a 
Stream, but stands before them round and full, like the moon. They 



do not know what happened ten years ago, much less the annals of a 
century; the past does not Hve to them in the present; they do not 
understand the worth of contested points; names have no associations 
for them, and persons kindle no recollections. They hear of men, and 
things, and projects, and struggles, and principles; but every thing 
comes and goes like the wind, nothing makes an impression, nothing 
penetrates, nothing has its place in their minds. They locate nothing; 
they have no system. They hear and they forget; or they just recollect 
that they have once heard, they can't tell where. Thus they have no 
consistency in their arguments; that is, they argue one way to-day, 
and not exactly the other way to-morrow, but indirectly the other 
way, at random. Their lines of argument diverge; nothing comes to 
a point; there_is no one centre in which their mind sits, on which 
their judgment of men and things proceeds. This is the state of many 
men all through hfe; and miserable politicians or Churchmen they 
make, unless by good luck they are in safe hands, and ruled by others, 
or are pledged to a course. Else they are at the mercy of the winds 
and waves; and, without being Radical, Whig, Tory, or Conserva- 
tive, High Church or Low Church, they do Whig acts, Tory acts, 
Catholic acts, and heretical acts, as the fit takes them, or as events or 
parties drive them. And sometimes, when their self-importance is 
hurt, they take refuge in the idea that all this is a proof that they are 
unfettered, moderate, dispassionate, that they observe the mean, that 
they are "no party-men;" when they are, in fact, the most helpless of 
slaves; for our strength in this world is, to be subjects of the reason, 
and our liberty, to be captives of the truth. 

Now Charles Reding, a youth of twenty, could not be supposed 
tojiavejiiuch of a view^in religion or pohtics; but no clever maji 
ajlowshimself to judge of things simply at haphazard; he is obliged, 
from a sort of self-respect, to have some rule or other, true or false; 
iind^ Charles was very fond of the maxim, which he has already 
^ciiunciatcd, that we must measure people by what they are, and not. 
J^ what they arc not. He had a great notion of loving every one — 
of looking kindly on every one; he was pierced with the sentiment 
wliich he had seen in a popular volume of poetry, that 
"Christian souls, .... 

Though worn and soiled with sinful clay. 

Are yet, to eyes that see them true. 

All glistening with baptismal dew." 



He liked, as he walked along the road, and met labourer or horseman, 
gentleman or beggar, to say to himself, "He is a Christian." And 
when he came to Oxford, he came there with an enthusiasm so simple 
and warm as to be almost childish. He reverenced even the velvet of 
the Pro; nay, the cocked hat which preceded the preacher had its 
claim on his deferential regard. Without being himself a poet, he 
was in the season of poetry, in the sweet spring-time, when the year 
is most beautiful, because it is new. Novelty was beauty to a heart so 
open and cheerful as his; not only because it was novelty, and had its 
proper charm as such, but because when we first sec things, we sec 
them in a gay confusion, which is a principal element of the poetical. 
As time goes on, and we number and sort and measure things, — 
as we gain views, — we advance towards philosophy and truth, but 
^we recede from poetry. ^ 

When we ourselves were young, we once on a time walked on a 
hot summer-day from Oxford to Newington — a dull road, as any %^^>>^'r^-L 
one who has gone it knows; yet it was new to us; and we protest to «' 
you, reader, believe it or not, laugh or not, as you will, to us it seemed 
on that occasion quite touchingly beautiful; and a soft melancholy 
came over us, of which the shadows fall even now, when we look 
back on that dusty, weary journey. And why? because every object 
which met us was unknown and fu"E of mystery. A tree or two in the 
distance seemed the beginning of a great wood, or park, stretching 
endlessly; a hill implied a vale beyond, with that vale's history; the 
bye-lanes, with their green hedges, wound on and vanished, yet were 
not lost to the imagination. Such was our first journey; but when we 
had gone it several times, the mind refused to act, the scene ceased to 
enchant, stern reality alone remained; and we thought it one of the 
most tiresome, odious roads we ever had occasion to traverse. 

But to return to our story. Such was Reding. But Sheffield, on 
the other hand, without possessing any real view of things more than 
Charles, was, at this time, fonder of hunting for views, and more in 
danger of taking up filse ones. That is, he was "viewy," in a bad 
§cnse of the word. He was not satisfied intellectually with tilings as 
they are; he was critical, impatient to reduce things to s)"stcm, 
pushed principles too far, was fond of argument, partly from 
pleasure in the exercise, partly because he was perplexed, though 
he did not lay any thing very much to heart. 

They neither of them felt any special interest in the controversy 



going on in the University and country about high and low Church. 
Sheffield had a sort of contempt for it; and Reding fck it to be bad 
taste to be unusual or prominent in any thing. An Eton acquaintance 
had asked him to go and hear one of the principal preachers of the 
CathoHc party, and offered to introduce him; but he had declined it. 
He did not like, he said, mixing himself up with party; he had come 
to Oxford to get his degree, and not to take up opinions; he thought 
liis father would not relish it; and, moreover, he felt some little 
repugnance to such opinions and such people, under the notion that 
the authorities of the University were opposed to the whole move- 
ment. He could not help looking at its leaders as demagogues; and 
towards demagogues he felt an unmeasured aversion and contempt. 
He did not see why clergymen, however respectable, should be 
collecting undergraduates about them; and he heard stories of their 
way of going on, which did not please him. Moreover, he did not 
like the specimens of their followers whom he fell in with; they were 
forward, or they "talked strong," as it was called; did ridiculous, 
extravagant acts; and sometimes neglected their college duties for 
things which did not concern them. He was unfortunate, certainly; 
for tliis is a very unfair account of the most exemplary men of that 
day, who doubtless are still, as clergymen or laymen, the strength of 
the Anglican Church; but in all collections of men, the straw and 
rubbish (as Lord Bacon says) float on the top, while gold and jewels 
sink and are hidden. Or, what is more apposite still, many men, or 
most men, are a compound of precious and worthless together, and 
their worthless swims, and their precious lies at the bottom. 


Bateman was one of these composite characters; he had much good 
and much cleverness in him; but he was absurd, and he afforded a 
subject of conversation to the two friends as they proceeded on their 
walk. "1 wish there was less of fudge and humbug every where," 
said Sheffield; "one might shovel off cartloads from this place, and 
not miss it." "If you had your way," answered Charles, "you would 
scrape off the roads till there was nothing to walk on. We are forced 
to walk on what you call humbug; we put it under our feet, but wc 



use it." "I cannot think that; it's hkc doing evil tliat good may come. 
I see shams every where. I go into St. Mary's, and I hear men spout- 
ing out commonplaces in a deep or a shrill voice, or with slow, clear, 
quiet emphasis and significant eyes, as that Bampton preacher not 
long ago, who assured us, apropos of the resurrection of the body, that 
'all attempts to resuscitate the inanimate corpse by natural mediods 
had hitherto been experimentally abortive.' I go into the place where 
degrees are given — the Convocation, I think — and there one hears 
a deal of unmeaning Latin for hours — graces, dispensations, and 
Proctors walking up and down for nothing; all in order to keep up a 
sort of ghost of things passed away for centuries, while the real work 
might be done in a quarter of an hour. I fall in with this Bateman, 
and he talks to me of rood-lofts without roods, and piscinas without 
water, and niches without images, and candlesticks without lights, 
and masses without Popery; till I feel, with Shakespeare, that 'all 
the world's a stage.' Well, I go to Shaw, Turner, and Brown, very 
different men, pupils of Dr. Gloucester — you know whom I mean — 
and they tell us that we ought to put up crucifixes by the wayside, in 
order to excite religious feeling." 

"Well, I really^think you are hard on all these people," said Charles; 
"it is all very much like declamation; you would destroy externals of 
every kind. You are like the man, in one of Miss Edgeworth's 
novels, who shut his ears to the music, that he might laugh at the 
dancers." "What is the music to which I close my ears?" asked 
Sheffield. "To the meaning of those various acts," answered Charles; 
"the pious feeling which accompanies the sight of the image is the 
music." "To those who have the pious feehng, certainly," said 
Sheffield; "but to put up images in England in order to create the 
feeling is like dancing to create music." "I think you are hard upon 
England," rephed Charles; "we are a religious people." "Well, I 
V'/ill put it differently: do you like music?" "You ought to know," 
said Charles, "whom I have frightened so often with my fiddle." 
"Do you like dancing?" "To tell the truth," said Charles, "I don't." 
"Nor do I," said Sheffield; "it makes me laugh to think what I have 
done, when a boy, to escape dancing; there is something so absurd 
in it; and one had to be civil and to duck to young girls who were 
either prim or pert. I have behaved quite rudely to them sometimes, 
and then have been annoyed at my imgentlemanlikeness, and not 
known how to get out of the scrape." "Well, I didn't know we 



were so like each other in any thing," said Charles; "oh, the misery 
I have endured, in having to stand up to dance, and to walk about 
with a partner! — every body looking at me, and I so awkward. It 
has been a torture to me days before and after." 

They_had_byL this .tinie come up to the foot of the rough rising 
ground which leads to the sort of tableland, on the edge of which 
Oxley is placed; and they stood still awhile to see some equestrians 
take the hurdles. They then mounted the hill, and looked back 
upon Oxford. "Perhaps you call those beautiful spires and towers a 
sham," said Charles, "because you see their tops, and not their 
bottoms?" "Whereabouts were we in our argument?" said the other, 
reminded that they had been wandering from it for the last ten 
minutes; "oh, I recollect; I know what I was at. I was saying that 
you liked music, but didn't like dancing; music leads another person 
to dance, but not you; and dancing does not increase but diminishes 
the intensity of the pleasure you find in music. In like mamier, it 
is a mere piece of pedantry to make a religious nation, like the 
English, more religious by placing images in the streets; this is not the 
English way, and only offends us. If it were our way, it would come 
naturally without any one telling us. As music incites to dancing, so 
rchgion would lead to images. But as dancing does not improve 
music to those who do not like dancing, so ceremonies do not im- 
prove religion to those who do not hke ceremonies." "Then do you 
mean," said Charles, "that the English Romanists are shams, because 
they do use crucifixes?" "Stop there," said Sheffield; "now you are 
getting upon a different subject. They believe that there is virtue in 
images; that indeed is absurd in them, but it makes them quite 
consistent in honouring them. They do not put up images as out- 
ward shows, merely to create feelings in the minds of beholders, as 
Gloucester would do, but they in good downright earnest worship 
images, as being more than they seem, as being not a mere outside 
show. They pay them a religious w^orship, as having been handled 
by great saints years ago, as having been used in pestilences, as having 
wrought miracles, as having moved their eyes or bowed their heads; 
or, at least, as having been blessed by the priest, and been made instru- 
ments of invisible grace. This is superstitious; but it is real." 

Charles was not satisfied. "An image is a mode of teaching," he 
said; " do you mean to say that a person is a sham merely because he 
mistakes the particular mode of teaching best suited to his own 



country?" "I did not say tliat Dr. Gloucester was a sham," answered 
Sheffield; "but that that mode of teaching of his was among Protest- 
ants a sham and a humbug." "But this principle will carry you too 
far, and destroy itself," said Charles. "Don't you recollect what 
Thompson quoted the other day out of Aristotle, which he had lately 
begun in lecture with Vincent, and which we thought so acute — that 
habits are created by those very acts in which they manifest them- 
selves when created. We learn to swim well by trying to swim. 
Now Bateman, doubtless, wishes to introduce piscinas and tabernacles; 
and to wait, before beginning, till they are received, is like not going 
into the water till you can swim." "Well, but what is Bateman the 
better when his piscina is universal?" asked Sheffield; "what does it 
mean? In the Romish Church it has a use, I know — I don't know what 
— but it comes into the Mass. But if Bateman makes piscinae 
universal among us, what has he achieved but the reign of a universal 
humbug?" "But, my dear Sheffield," answered Reding, "consider 
how many things there are, which, in the course of time, have altered 
their original meaning, and yet have a meaning, though a changed 
one, still. The judge's wig is no sham, yet it has a history. The 
Queen, at her coronation, is said to wear a Roman Catholic vestment, 
— is that a sham? Does it not still typify and impress upon us the 
'divinity that doth hedge a king,' though it has lost the meaning 
which the Church of Rome gave it? Or are you of the number of 
those, who, according to the witticism, think majesty, when deprived 
of its externals, a jest?" "Then you defend the introduction of un- 
meaning piscinae and candlesticks?" "I think," answered Charles, 
"that there's a great difference between reviving and retaining; it may 
be natural to retain, even while the use fails, unnatural to revive when 
it has failed; but tliis is a question of discretion and judgment." 
"Then you give it against Bateman," said Sheffield. 

A slight pause ensued; then Charles added, "But perhaps these men 
actually do wish to introduce the realities as well as the externals; 
perhaps they wish to use the piscina as well as to have it. . . . 
Sheffield," he continued, abruptly, "why are not canonicals a sham, 
if piscinas are shams?" "Canonicals," said Sheffield, as if thinking 
about them; "no, canonicals are no sham; for preaching, I suppose, is 
the highest ordinance in our Church, and has the richest dress. The 
robes of a great preacher cost, I know, mam' pounds; for there was 
one near us who, on leaving, had a present from the ladies ot an 



eiitire set, and a dozen pair of worked slippers into the bargain. But 
it's all fitting, if preaching is the great office of the clergy. Next 
conies the Sacrament, and has the surplice and hood. And hood," 
he repeated, musing; "what's that for? no, it's the scarf The hood is 
worn in the University pulpit; what is the scarf? it belongs to chap- 
lains, I believe, that is, to petsons; I can't make a view out of it." 
"My dear Sheffield," said Charles, "you have cut your own throat. 
Here you have been trying to give a sense to the clerical dress, and 
cannot; are you then prepared to call it a sham? Answer me tliis single 
question — ^why does a clergyman wear a surphce when he reads 
prayers? Nay, I will put it more simply — why can only a clergyman 
read prayers in Church? why cannot I?" Sheffield hesitated, and 
looked serious. "Do you know," he said, "you have just pitched on 
Jeremy Bentham's objection. In his Church of Englandism, he pro- 
poses, if I recollect rightly, that a parish-boy should be taught to 
read the Liturgy; and he asks. Why send a person to the University 
for three or four years at an enormous expense, why teach him Latin 
and Greek, on purpose to read what any boy could be taught to 
read at a dame's school? What is the virtue of a clergyman's reading? 
Something of this kind, Bentham says; and," he added slowly, "to 
tell the truth, / don't know how to answer him." Reding was 
surprised and shocked, and puzzled too; he did not know what to 
say; when .the conversation was, perhaps fortunately, interrupted. 


Every year brings changes and reforms. We do not know what 
is the state of Oxley Church now; it may have rood-loft, piscina, 
scdilia, all new; or it may be reformed backwards, the seats on 
principle turning from the Communion-table, and the pulpit planted 
in the middle of the aisle: but at the time when these two young men 
walked through the churchyard, there was nothing very good or 
very bad to attract them within the building; and they were passing 
on, when they observed, coming out of the church, what Sheffield 
called an elderly don, a fellow of a college, whom Charles knew. He 
was a man of family, and had some little property of his own, had 
been a contemporary of his father's at the University, and had from 



time to time been a guest at the parsonage. Charles had, in con- 
sequence, known him from a boy; and now, since lie came into 
residence, he had, as was natural, received many small attentions from 
him. Once, when he was late for his own hall, he had given him 
dinner in his rooms; he had taken him out on a fishing expedition 
towards Faringdon; and had promised him tickets for some ladies, 
lionesses of his, who were coming up to the Commemoration. He 
was a shrewd, easy-tempered, free-spoken man, of small desires and 
no ambition; of no very keen sensibilities or romantic delicacies, and 
very little religious pretension; that is, though unexceptionable in 
his deportment, he hated the shew of religion, and was impatient at 
those who affected it. He had known the University for thirty years, 
and formed a right estimate of most things in it. He had come out 
to Oxley to take a funeral for a friend, and was now returning home. 
He hallooed to Charles, who, though feeling at first awkward on 
finding himself with two such different friends and in two such 
different relations, was, after a time, partially restored to himself by 
the unconcern of Mr. Malcolm; and the three walked home together. 
Yet, even to the last, he did not quite know how and where to 
walk, and how to carry himself; particularly when they got near to 
Oxford, and he fell in with various parties who greeted him in passing. 
Charles, by way of a remark, said that they had been looking in 
at a pretty little chapel on the common, which was now in course of 
repair. Mr. Malcolm laughed. "So, Charles," he said, ''you re bit 
with the new fashion." Charles coloured, and asked, "What 
fashion?" adding, that a friend, by accident, had taken them in. 
"You ask what fashion?" said Mr. Malcolm; "why, the newest, latest 
fashion. This is a place of fashions; there have been many fashions 
in my time. The greater part of the residents, that is, the boys, 
change once in three years; the fellows and tutors, perhaps, in half a 
dozen; and every generation has its own fashion. There is no 
principle of stability in Oxford, except the Heads, and they are always 
the same, and always will be the same to the end of the chapter. 
What is in now," he asked, "among you youngsters? drinking, or 
cigars?" Charles laughed modestly, and said he hoped drinking had 
gone out every where. "Worse things may come in," said Mr. 
Malcolm; "but there are fashions everywhere. There was once a 
spouting-club, perhaps it is in favour still; before it was the music- 
room. Once geology was all the rage; now it is theology; soon it will 

N— I 129 


be architecture, or medieval antiquities, or editions and codices. Each 

wears out in its turn; all depends on one or two active men; but the 
secretary takes a wife, or the professor gets a stall; and then the meet- 
ings are called irregularly, and nothing is done in them, and so 
gradually the affair dwindles and dies." 

Sheffield asked whether the present movement had not spread too 
widely through the country for such a termination; he did not know 
much about it himself, but the papers were full of it, and it was the 
talk of every neighbourhood; it was not confined to Oxford. 

"I don't know about the country," said Mr. Malcolm, "that is a 
large question; but it has not the elements of stability here. These 
gentlemen will take livings and marry, and that will be the end of the 
business. I am not speaking against them; they are, I beheve, very 
respectable men; but they are riding on the spring-tide of a fashion." 

Charles said it was a nuisance to see the party-spirit it introduced. 
"Oxford ought to be a place of quiet and study; peace and the Muses 
always went together; whereas there was talk, talk in every quarter. 
A man could not go about his duties in a natural way, and take 
every one as he came, but was obliged to take part in questions, and 
to consider points, which he might wish to put from him, and must 
sport an opinion when he really had none to give." 

Mr. Malcolm assented in a half-absent way, looking at the view 
before him, and seemingly enjoying it. "People call this county 
ugly," he said, "and perhaps it is; but, whether I am used to it or no, 
I always am pleased with it. The lights are always new; and thus the 
landscape, if it deserves the name, is always presented in a new dress. 
I have known Shotover there take the most opposite hues, sometimes 
purple, sometimes a bright saffron or tawny orange." Here he 
stopped: "Yes, you speak of party-spirit; very true, there's a great 
deal of it. No, I don't think there's much," he continued, rousing; 
"certainly there is more division just at this minute in Oxford, but 
there always is division, always rivalry. The separate Societies have 
their own interests and honour to maintain, and quarrel, as the orders 
do in the Church of Rome. No, that's too grand a comparison; 
rather, Oxford is like an almshouse for clergymen's widows. Self- 
importance, jealousy, tittle-tattle, are the order of the day. It has 
always been so in my time. Two great ladies, Mrs. Vice-Chancellor 
and Mrs. Divinity-Professor can't agree, and have followings respec- 
tively: or Vice-Chancellor himself, being a new broom, sweeps all 



the young masters clean out of the Convocation House, to their 
great indignation; or Mr. Slancy, l^can of St. Peter's, does not scruple 
to say, in a stage-coach, that Mr. Wood is no scholar; on which the 
said Wood calls him in return 'slanderous Slaney'; or the elderly Mr. 
Barge, late Senior Fellow of St. Michael's, thinks that his pretty 
bride has not been received with due honours; or Dr. Crotchet is for 
years kept out of his destined bishopric by a sinister influence; or 
Mr. Professor Carraway has been infamously shewn up in the 'Edin- 
burgh' by an idle fellow whom he plucked in the schools; or [niajora 
movemus) three colleges interchange a mortal vow of opposition to a 
fourth; or the young working masters conspire against the Heads. 
Now, however, we are improving; if we must quarrel, let it be the 
rivalry of intellect and conscience, rather than of interests or temper; 
let us contend for things, not for shadows." 

Sheffield was pleased at this, and ventured to say that the present 
state of things was more real, and therefore more healthy. Mr. 
Malcolm did not seem to hear him, for he did not reply; and, as 
they were now approaching the bridge again, the conversation 
stopped. Sheffield looked slyly at Charles, as Mr. Malcolm proceeded 
with them up High Street; and both of them had the triumph and the 
amusement of being convoyed safely past a Proctor, who was 
patrolling it, under the protection of a Master. 


The walk to Oxley had not been the first or the second occasion 
on^which Charles had, in one shape or other, encountered Sheffield's 
views about realities and shams; and his preachments had begun to 
make an impression on him; that is, he felt that there was truth in 
them at bottom, and a truth new to him. .He was not a person to let 
^ruth sleep in his mind, though it did not vegetate very quickly; 
it was sure ultimately to be pursued into its consequences, and to 
affect his existing opinions. Jn_ the instance before us, he saw 
Sheffield's principle was more or less antagonistic to his own favourite 
maxim, that it was a duty to be pleased with every one. Contradic- 
tions could not both be real: when an affirmative was true, a negative 
was false. All doctrines could not be equally sound: there was a right 



and a wrong. The theory of dogmatic truth, as opposed to latitudi- 
narianism (he did not know their names or their history, or suspect 
what was going on in him), had, in the course of these his first terms, 
gradually begun to energise in his mind. Let him but see the absurdi- 
ties of the latitudinarian principle, when carried out, and he is likely 
to be still more opposed to it. 

Bateman, among his pecuharities, had a notion that bringing per- 
sons of contrary sentiments together was the likeliest way of making 
a party agreeable, or at least useful. He had done his best, though 
without much success, to give his breakfast, to which our friends 
were invited, tliis element of perfection; not, however, to his own 
satisfaction; for, with all his efforts, he had but picked up Mr. Free- 
born, a young Evangelical Master, with whom Sheffield was 
acquainted; a sharp but not very wise freshman, who, having been 
spoilt at home, and having plenty of money, professed to be ccsthetic, 
and kept his college authorities in a perpetual fidget lest he should 
some morning wake up a Papist; and a friend of his, a nice modest- 
looking youth, who, like a mouse, had keen darting eyes, and ate his 
bread and butter in absolute silence. 

They had hardly seated themselves, and while Sheffield was pour- 
ing out coffee, and a plate of muffins was going round, Bateman was 
engaged, saucepan in hand, in the operatian of landing his eggs, now 
boiled, upon the tabic, when our flighty youth, whose name was 
White, observed how beautiful the Cathylic custom was of making 
the eggs the emblem of the Easter-festival. "It is truly Catholic," said 
he; "for it is retained in parts of England, you have it in Russia, and 
in Rome itself, where an egg is served up on every plate through the 
Easter-week, after being, I believe, blessed; and it is as expressive and 
significant as it is Catholic." "Beautiful indeed!" said their host; "so 
pretty, so sweet; I wonder whether our Reformers thought of it, 
or the profound Hooker, — he was full of types, — or Jewell. You 
recollect the staff Jcv/ell gave him: that was a type. It was like the 
sending of Elisha's staff by his servant to the dead child." "Oh, my 
dear, dear Bateman," cried Sheffield, "you are making Hooker 
Gehazi." "That's just the upshot of such trifling," said Mr. Freeborn; 
"you never know where to fmd it; it proves any thing and disproves 
any thing." "That is only till it's sanctioned," saidWhitc; "when the 
Catholic Church sanctions it, we're safe." "Yes, we're safe," said 
Bateman, "it's safe when it's CathoHc." "Yes," continued White, 



"things change their nature altogether, when they are taken up by 
the Cathohc Church: that's how we are allowed to do evil, that good 
may come." "What's that?" said Batcman. "Why," said White, 
"the Church makes evil good." "My dear White," said liatcman 
gravely, "that's going too far; it is indeed." Mr. Freeborn suspended 
his breakfast operations, and sat back in his chair. "Why," continued 
White, "is not idolatry wrong? yet image-worship is right," Mr. 
Freeborn was in a state of collapse. "That's a bad instance, White," 
said Sheffield; "there are people in the world who are uncatholic 
enough to think image-worship wrong, as well as idolatry." "A 
mere Jesuitical distinction," said Freeborn, with emotion. "Well," 
said White, who did not seem in great awe of the young M.A., 
though some years, of course, liis senior, "I will take a better instance: 
who does not know that baptism gives grace? yet there were heathen 
baptismal rites, which, of course, were devilish." "I should not be 
disposed, Mr. White, to grant you so much as you would wish," said 
Freeborn, "about the virtue of baptism." "Not about Christian 
baptism?" asked White. "It is easy," answered Freeborn, "to mistake 
the sign for the tiling signified." "Not about Catholic baptism?" 
repeated White. "Catholic baptism is a mere deceit and delusion," 
retorted Mr. Freeborn. "Oh, my dear Freeborn," interposed Bate- 
man, "now you are going too far; you are indeed." "Catholic, 
Catholic; I don't know what you mean," said Freeborn. "I mean," 
said White, "the baptism of the One Catholic Church, of which the 
Creed speaks: it's quite intelligible." "But what do you mean by the 
Catholic Church?" asked Freeborn. "The Anghcan," answered 
Bateman; "The Roman," answered White; both in the same breath. 
There was a general laugh. "There is nothing to laugh at," said 
Bateman; "Anglican and Roman are one." "One! impossible," 
cried Sheffield. "Much worse than impossible," observed Mr. 
Freeborn. "I should make a distinction," said Bateman; "I should 
say, they are one, except the corruptions of the Romish Church." 
"That is, one except where they differ," said Sheffield. "Precisely 
so," said Bateman. "Rather, J should say," objected Mr. Freebom, 
"two except where they agree." "That's just the issue," said Sheffield; 
"Bateman says that the Churches are one except where they are two; 
and Freebom says that they are two except where they are one." 

It was a relief that at this moment the cook's boy came in with a 
dish of hot sausages; but though a rehef, it was not so much as a 



diversion; the conversation proceeded. Two persons did not like it: 
Freeborn, who was simply disgusted at the doctrine, and Reding, 
who thought it a bore; yet it was the bad luck of Freeborn forthwith 
to set Charles against him, as well as the rest; and to remove the 
repugnance which he had to engage in the dispute. Freeborn, in 
fact, thought theology itself a mistake, as substituting, as he con- 
sidered, worthless intellectual notions for the vital truths of religion; 
so he now went on to observe, putting down his knife and fork, that 
it really was to him inconceivable, that real religion should depend 
on metaphysical distinctions, or outward observances; that it was 
quite a different thing in Scripture; that Scripture said much of faith 
and hoHness, but hardly a word about churches and forms. He pro- 
ceeded to say that it was the great and evil tendency of the human 
mind to interpose between itself and its Creator some self-invented 
mediator, and it did not matter at all whether that human device was 
a rate, or a creed, or a form of prayer, or good works, or communion 
with particular Churches — all were but "flattering unctions to the 
soul," if they were considered necessary; the only safe way of using 
them was to use them with the feeling that you might dispense with 
them; that none of them went o the root of the matter, for that faith, 
that is, firm belief that God had forgiven you, was the one thing 
needful; that where that one thing was present, every thing else was 
superfluous; that where it was wanting, nothing else availed. So 
strongly did he hold this, that, (he confessed he put it pointedly, but 
still not untruly,) where true faith was present, a person might be 
any thing in profession; an Arminian, a Calvinist, an Episcopalian, a 
Presbyterian, a Swedenborgian — nay, a Unitarian — he would go 
further, looking at White, a Papist, yet be in a state of salvation. 

Freeborn came out rather more strongly than in his sober moments 
he would have approved; but he was a httle irritated, and wished to 
have his turn of speaking. It was altogether a great testification. 
"Thank you for your liberality to the poor Papists," said White; 
"it seems they are safe if they are hypocrites, professing to be Catholics, 
while they are Protestants in heart." "Unitarians, too," said Sheffield, 
"are debtors to your liberality; it seems a man need not fear to believe 
too little, so that he feels a good deal." "Rather," said White, "if 
he believes himself forgiven, he need not believe any thing else." 
Reding put in liis word; he said that in the Prayer-book, belief in the 
Holy Trinity was represented, not as an accident, but as "before all 



things" necessary to salvation. "That's not a fair answer, Reding," 
said Sheffield; "what Mr. Freeborn observed was, that there's no 
creed in the Bible; and you answer that there is a creed in the Prayer- 
book." "Then the Bible says one thing, and the Prayer-book 
another," said Bateman. "No," answered Freeborn; "the Prayer- 
book only deduces from Scripture; the Athanasian Creed is a human 
invention; true, but human, and to be received, as one of the Articles 
expressly says, because 'founded on Scripture.' Creeds are useful in 
their place, so is the Church; but neither Creed nor Church is 
religion." "Then why do you make so much of your doctrine of 
'faith only?' " said Bateman; "for that is not in Scripture, and is but 
a human deduction?" "My doctrine!" cried Freeborn; "why it's in 
the Articles; the Articles expressly say that we are justified by faith 
only." "The Articles are not Scripture, any more than the Prayer- 
book," said Sheffield. "Nor do the Articles say that the doctrine they 
propound is necessary for salvation," added Bateman. 

All this was very unfair on Freeborn, though he had provoked it. 
Here were four persons on him at once, and the silent fifth apparently 
a sympathiser. Sheffield talked through malice; White from habit; 
Reding came in because he could not help it; and Bateman spoke on 
principle; he had a notion that he was improving Freeborn's views 
by this process of badgering. At least he did not improve his temper, 
which was suffering. Most of the party were undergraduates; he, 
Freeborn, was a Master: it was too bad of Bateman. He finished in 
silence his sausage, which had got quite cold. The conversation 
flagged; there was a rise in toast and muffins; coffee-cups were put 
ajide, and tea flowed freely. 


Freeborn did not like to be beaten; he began again. Religion, he 
said, was a matter of the heart; no one could interpret Scripture 
rightly, whose heart was not right. Till our eyes were enlightened, 
to dispute about the sense of Scripture, to attempt to deduce from 
Scripture, was beating about the bush: it was like the blind disputing 
about colours. "If this is true," said Bateman, "no one ought to 
argue about religion at all; but you were the first to do so, Freeborn." 



"Of course," answered Freeborn, "those who h^ive found the truth 
are the very persons to argue, for they have the gift." "And the 
very last persons to persuade," said Sheffield; "for they have the gift 
all to themselves." "Therefore true Christians should argue with 
each other, and with no one else," said Bateman. "But those are 
the very persons who don't want it," said Sheffield; "reasoning must 
be for the unconverted, not for the converted. It is the means of 
seeking." Freeborn persisted that the reason of the unconverted was 
carnal, and that such could not understand Scripture. "I have always 
thought," said Reding, "that reason was a general gift, though faith 
is a special and personal one. If faith is really rational, all ought to see 
that it is rational; else, from the nature of the case, it is not rational." 
"But St. Paul says," answered Freeborn, "that 'to the natural man the 
things of the Spirit are foolishness.' " "But how are we to arrive at 
truth at all," said Reding, "except by reason? it is the appointed 
method for our guidance. Brutes go by instinct, men by reason," 
They had fallen on a difficult subject; all were somewhat puzzled, 
except White, who had not been attending, and was simply wearied; 
he now interposed. "It would be a dull world," he said, "if men went 
by reason: they may think they do, but they don't. Really, they are 
led by their feelings, their affections, by the sense of the beautiful, and 
the good, and the holy. Religion is the beautiful; the clouds, sun, 
and sky, the fields and the woods, are religion." "This would make 
all religions true," said Freeborn, "good and bad." "No," answered 
White, "heathen rites are bloody and impure, not beautiful; and 
Mahometanism is as cold and as dry as any Calvinistic meeting. The 
Mahometans have no altars or priests, nothing but a pulpit and a 
preacher." "Like St. Mary's," said Sheffield. "Very like," said 
White; "we have no life or poetry in the Church of England; the 
CathoHc Church alone is beautiful. You would see what I mean, if 
you went into a foreign cathedral, or even into one of the Cathohc 
churches in our large towns. The celebrant, deacon and subdeacon, 
acolytes with lights, the incense, and the chanting — all combines to 
one end, one act of worsliip. You feel it is really a worshipping; 
every sense, eyes, ears, smell, are made to know that worship is going 
on. The laity on the floor saying their beads, or making their acts; 
the choir singing out the Kyrie; and the priest and his assistants bowing 
low, and saying the Confiteor to each other. This is worship, and it 
is far above reason." This was spoken with all his heart; but it was 



quite out of keeping with the conversation which had preceded it, 
and White's poetry was almost as disagreeable to tlie party as Free- 
born's prose. "White, you should turn Catholic out and out," said 
Sheffield. "My dear good fellow," said Bateman, "think what you 
are saying. You can't really have gone to a schismatical chapel. Oh, 
for shame!" Freeborn observed gravely, that if the two Churches 
ii^ere one, as had been maintained, he could not see, do what he would, 
why it was wrong to go to and fro from one to the other. "You 
forget," said Bateman to White, "you have, or might have, all this 
in your own Church, without the Romish corruptions." "As to the 
Romish corruptions," answered White, "I know very little about 
them." Freeborn groaned audibly. "I know very little about them," 
repeated White eagerly, "very little; but what is that to the purpose? 
We must take things as we find them. I don't like what is bad in the 
Catholic Church, if there is bad, but what is good. I do not go to it 
for what is bad, but for what is good. You can't deny that what I 
admire is very good and beautiful. You try to introduce it into your 
own Church. You would give your ears, you know you would, to 
hear the Dies ircv" Here a general burst of laughter took place. 
White was an Irishman. It was a happy interruption; the party rose 
up from table, and a tap at that minute which sounded at the door 
succeeded in severing the thread of the conversation. 

It was a printseller's man with a large book of plates. "Well 
timed," said Bateman; — "put them down, Baker; or rather give them 
me; — I can take the opinion of you men on a point I have much at 
heart. You know I wanted you, Freeborn, to go with me to see my 
chapel; Sheffield and Reding have looked into it. Well now, just see 
here." He opened the portfolio; it contained views of the Campo 
Santo at Pisa. The leaves were slowly turned over in silence, the 
spectators partly admiring, partly not knowing what to think, partly 
wondering what was coming. "What do you think my plan is?" 
he continued. "You twitted me, Sheffield, because my chapel would 
be useless. Now I mean to get a cemetery attached to it; there is 
plenty of land; and then the chapel will become a chantry. But now, 
what will you say if we have a copy of these splendid medieval monu- 
ments round the burial-place, both sculpture and painting? Now, 
Sheffield, Mr. Critic, what do you say to that?" "A most admirable 
plan," said Sheffield, "and quite removes my objections. A chantry! 
what is that? Don't they say mass in it for the dead?" "O no, no, 



no," said Bateman, in fear of Freeborn; "we'll have none of your 
Popery. It will be a simple guileless chapel, in which the Church- 
service will be read." Meanwhile Sheffield was slowly turning over 
the plates. He stopped at one. "What will you do with that figure?" 
he said, pointing to a drawing of the Madonna. "Oh, it will be best, 
most prudent, to leave it out; certainly, certainly." Sheffield soon 
began again: "But look here, my good fellow, what do you do with 
these saints and angels? Do see, why here's a complete legend; do you 
mean to have this? Here's a set of miracles, and a woman invoking 
a saint in heaven." Bateman looked cautiously at them, and did not 
answer. He would have shut the book, but Sheffield wished to see 
some more. Meanwhile he said, "Oh yes, true, there are some things; 
but I have an expedient for all this; I mean to make it all allegorical. 
The Blessed Virgin shall be the Church, and the saints shall be 
cardinal and other virtues; and as to that saint's hfe, St. Ranieri's, it 
shall be a Catholic 'Pilgrim's Progress.' " "Good; then you must 
drop all these Popes and Bishops, copes and chalices," said Sheffield; 
"and have their names written under the rest, that people mayn't 
take them for saints and angels. Perhaps you had better have scrolls 
from the mouths, in old English. This St. Thomas is stout; make him 
say, 'I am Mr. Dreadnought,' or 'I am Giant Despair;* and, since tliis 
beautiful saint bears a sort of dish, make her 'Mrs. Creature Comfort.* 
But look here," he continued, "a whole set of devils; are these to be 
painted up?" Bateman attempted forcibly to shut the book; Sheffield 
went on: "St. Anthony's temptation; what's tliis? Here's the fiend in 
the shape of a cat on a wine-barrel." "Really, really," said Bateman, 
disgusted, and getting possession of them, "you are quite offensive, 
quite. We will look at them when you are more serious.*' Sheffield 
indeed was very provoking, and Bateman more good-humoured 
than many persons would have been in his place. Meanwhile Free- 
born, who had had his gown in his hand the last two minutes, nodded 
to his host, and took his departure by himself; and Wliite and Willis 
soon followed in company. 

"Really," said Bateman, when they were gone, "you and White, 
each in his own way, are so very rash in your mode of speaking, 
and before other people too. I wished to teach Freeborn a little good 
Catholicism, and you have spoilt all. I hoped something would have 
come of this breakfast. But only think of White ! it will all out. 
Freeborn will tell it to his set. It is very bad, very bad indeed. And 



you, my friend, arc not much better; never serious. What could you 
mean by saying that our Church is not one with the Romish? It 
was giving Freeborn such an advantage." Sheffield looked provok- 
ingly easy; and, leaning with his back against the mantelpiece, and his 
coat-tail almost playing with the spout of the kettle, replied, "You 
had a most awkward team to drive." Then he added, looking side- 
ways at him with his head back, "And why had you, O most correct 
of men, the audacity to say that the English Church and the Roman 
Church were one?" "It must be so," answered Bateman; "there is 
but one Church — the Creed says so; would you make two?" "I don't 
speak of doctrine," said Sheffield, "but of fact. I didn't mean to say 
that there were two churches', nor to deny that there was one Church. I 
but denied the fact, that what are evidently two bodies were one body." 
Bateman thought awhile; and Charles employed himself in scraping 
down the soot from the back of the chimney with the poker. He did not 
wish to speak; but he was not sorry to listen to such an argument. 

"My good fellow," said Bateman, in a tone of instruction, "you 
are making a distinction between a Church and a body, which I don't 
quite comprehend. You say that there are two bodies, and yet but 
one Church. If so, the Church is not a body, but something abstract, 
a mere name, a general idea; is that your meaning? if so, you are an 
honest Calvinist." "You are another," answered Sheffield; "for if 
you make two visible Churches, English and Romish, to be one 
Church, that one Church must be invisible, not visible. Thus, if I 
hold an abstract Church, you hold an invisible one." "I do not see 
that," said Bateman. "Prove the two Churches to be one," said 
Sheffield, "and then I'll prove something else." "Some paradox," 
said Bateman. "Of course," answered Sheffield, "a huge one; but 
yours, not mine. Prove the EngHsh and Romish Churches to be 
in any sense one, and I will prove by parallel arguments that in the 
same sense we and the Wesley ans are one." 

This was a fair challenge. Bateman, however, suddenly put on a 
demure look, and was silent. "We are on sacred subjects," he said at 
length, in a subdued tone, "we are on very sacred subjects; we must 
be reverent," and he drew a very long face. Sheffield laughed out, 
nor could Reding stand it. "What is it?" cried Sheffield; "don't be 
hard with me; what have I done? Where did the sacredness begin? 
I eat my words." "Oh, he meant nothing," said Charles, "indeed 
he did not; he's more serious than he seems; do answer him; I am 



interested." "Really I do wish to treat the subject gravely," said 
Sheffield; "I will begia again. I am very sorry, indeed I am. Let me 
put the objection more reverently." Bateman relaxed: "My good 
Sheffield," he said, "the thing is irreverent, not the manner. It is 
irreverent to liken your holy mother to the Wesleyan schismatics." 
"I repent, I do indeed," said Sheffield; "it was a wavering of faith; 
it was very unseemly, I confess it. What can I say more? Look at 
me; won't this do? But now tell me, do tell me, how are we one 
body with the Romanists, yet the Wesleyans not one body with 
us?" Bateman looked at him, and was satisfied wdth the expression 
of his face. "It's a strange question for you to ask," he said; "I 
fancied you were a sharper fellow. Don't you see that we have the 
apostolical succession as well as the Romanists?" "But Romanists 
say," answered Sheffield, "that that is not enough for unity; that we 
ought to be in communion with the Pope." "That's their mistake," 
answered Bateman. "That's just what the Wesleyans say of us," 
retorted Sheffield, "when we won't acknowledge their succession; 
they say it's our mistake." "Their succession!" cried Bateman, "they 
have no succession." "Yes, they have," said Sheffield, "they have a 
ministerial succession." "It isn't apostolical," answered Bateman. 
"Yes, but it is evangehcal, a succession of doctrine," said Sheffield. 
"Doctrine! Evangelical!" cried Bateman, "who ever heard! that's 
not enough; doctrine is not enough without bishops." "And succes- 
sion is not enough without the Pope," answered Sheffield. "They act 
against the Bishops," said Bateman, not quite seeing whither he was 
going. "And we act against the Pope," said Sheffield. "We say that 
the Pope isn't necessary," said Bateman. "And they say that Bishops 
are not necessary," returned Sheffield. 

They were out of breath, and paused to see where they stood. 
Presently Bateman said, "My good sir, this is a question o( fact, not 
of argumentative cleverness. The question is, whether it is not true 
that Bishops are necessary to the action of a Church, and whether it 
is not false that Popes are necessary." "No, no," said Sheffield, "the 
question is this, whether obedience to our Bishops is not necessary to 
make Wesleyans one body with us, and obedience to their Pope 
necessary to make us one body with the Romanists. You maintain 
the one, and deny the other; I maintain both. Maintain both, or 
deny both: I am consistent; you are inconsistent." Bateman was 
puzzled. "In a word," Sheffield added, "succession is not unity, any 



more than doctrine." "Not unity? What then is unity?" asked 
Bateman. "Oneness of government," answered Sheffield. 

Bateman thought awhile. "The idea is preposterous," he said: 
"here we have possession; here we are estabhshed since King Lucius's 
time, or since St. Paul preached here; filling the island; one continuous 
Church; with the same territory, the same succession, the same 
hierarchy, the same civil and political position, the same churches. 
Yes," he proceeded, "we have the very same fabrics, the memorials 
of a thousand years, doctrine stamped and perpetuated in stone; all 
the mystical teaching of the old saints. What have Methodists to do 
with Catholic rites? with altars, with sacrifice, with rood-lofts, with 
fonts, with niches? they call it all superstition," "Don't be angry with 
me, Bateman," said Sheffield, "and, before going, I will put forth a 
parable. Here's the Church of England, as like a Protestant Establish- 
ment as it can stare; Bishops and people, all but a few like yourselves, 
call it Protestant; the living body calls itself Protestant; the living 
body abjures Catholicism, flings off the name and the thing, hates 
the Church of Rome, laughs at sacramental power, despises the 
Fathers, is jealous of priestcraft, is a Protestant reality, is a Catholic 
sham. This existing reality, which is alive, and no mistake, you 
wish to top with a filagree-work of skreens, dorsals, pastoral staffs, 
croziers, mitres, and the like. Now, most excellent Bateman, will 
you hear my parable? will you be offended at it?" Silence gave 
consent, and Sheffield proceeded, "Why, once on a time, a negro 
boy, when his master was away, stole into his wardrobe, and deter- 
mined to make hunself fine at his master's expense. So he was 
presently seen in the streets, naked as usual, but strutting up and down, 
with a cocked hat on his head, and a pair of wliite kid gloves on his 
hands." "Away with you! get out, you graceless, hopeless fellow!" 
said Bateman, discharging the sofa-bolster at his head. Meanwhile 
Sheffield ran to the door, and quickly found himself with Charles 
in the street below. 


Sheffield and Charles may go their way; but we must follow White 
and Willis out of Batcman's lodgings. It was a Saint's day, and thev 
had no lectures; they walked arm and arm along Broad Street, 



evidently very intimate, and Willis found his voice: "I can't bear that 
Freeborn," said he, "he's such a prig; and I like him the less because 
I am obliged to know him." "You knew him in the country, I 
think?" said White. "In consequence, he has several times had me to 
his spiritual tea-parties, and has introduced me to old Mr. Grimes, a 
good, kind-hearted old fogie, but an av^^ful evangelical, and his wife 
worse. Grimes is the old original religious tea-man, and Freeborn 
imitates him. They get together as many men as they can, perhaps 
twenty, freshmen, bachelors, and masters, who sit in a circle, with 
cups and saucers in their hands and hassocks at their knees. Some 
insufferable person of Capel Hall or St. Mark's, who hardly speaks 
English, under pretence of asking Mr, Grimes some divinity question, 
holds forth on original sin, or justification, or assurance, monopolising 
the conversation. Then tea-things go, and a 'portion of Scripture' 
comes instead; and old Grimes expounds; very good it is doubtless, 
though he is a layman. He's a good old soul; but no one in the room 
can stand it; even Mrs. Grimes nods over her knitting, and some of 
the dear brothers breathe very audibly. Mr. Grimes, however, hears 
nothing but himself. At length he stops; his hearers wake up, and the 
hassocks begin. Then we go; and Mr. Grimes and the St. Mark's 
man call it a profitable evening, I can't make out why any one goes 
twice; yet some men never miss." "They all go on faith," said White; 
"faith in Mr. Grimes." "Faith in old Grimes!" said Wilhs; "an old 
half-pay lieutenant!" "Here's a church open," said White; "that's 
odd; let's go in." 

They entered; an old woman was dusting the pews as if for service. 
"That will all be set right," said Willis; "we must have no women, 
but sacristans and servers." "Then, you know, all these pews will go 
to the right-about. Did you ever see a finer church for a function?" 
"Where would you put the sacristy?" said Willis; "that closet is 
meant for the vestry, but would never be large enough." "That 
depends on the number of altars the church admits," answered 
White; "each altar must have its own table and wardrobe in the 
sacristy." "One," said Willis, counting, "where the pulpit stands, 
that'll be the high altar; one quite behind, that may be Our Lady's; 
two on each side the chancel — four already; to whom do you dedicate 
them?" "The church is not wide enough for those side ones," 
objected White. "Oh, but it is," said Wilhs; "I have seen, abroad, 
akars with only one step to them, and they need not be very broad. 



I think, too, this wall admits of an arch — look at the depth of the 
window; that would be a gain of room." "No," persisted White; 
"the chancel is too narrow;" and he began to measure the floor with 
his pocket-handkerchief: "What should you say is the depth of an 
altar from the wall?" he asked. 

On looking up, he saw some ladies in the church whom he and 
Wilhs knew — the pretty Miss Boltons; — very Catholic girls, and 
really kind, charitable persons into the bargain. We cannot add, that 
they were much wiser at that time than the two young gentlemen 
whom they now encountered; and if any fair reader thinks our 
account of them a reflection on Catholic-minded ladies generally, we 
beg distinctly to say, that we by no means put them forth as a type 
of a class; that among such persons were to be found, as we know 
well, the gentlest spirits and the tenderest hearts; and that nothing 
short of severe fidelity to historical truth keeps us from adorning 
these two young persons in particular with that prudence and good 
sense with which so many such ladies were endowed. These two 
sisters had open hands, if they had not wise heads; and their object in 
entering the church (which was not the church of their own parish) 
was to see the old woman, who was at once a subject and organ of 
their bounty, and to say a word about her little grand-children, in 
whom they were interested. As may be supposed, they did not know 
much of matters ecclesiastical, and they knew less of themselves; and 
the latter defect White could not supply, though he was doing, and 
had done, his best to remedy the former deficiency; and every 
meeting did a little. 

The two parties left the church together, and the gentlemen saw 
the ladies home. "We were imagining. Miss Bolton," White said, 
walking at a respectful distance from her, "we were imagining St. 
James's a Catholic church, and trying to arrange things as they ought 
to be." "What was your first reform?" asked Miss Bolton. "I fear," 
answered White, "it would fare hard with your protegee, the old 
lady who dusts out the pews." "Why, certainly," said Miss Bolton, 
"because there would be no pews to dust." "But not only in office, 
but in person, or rather in character, she must make her exit from the 
church," said White. "Impossible," said Miss Bolton; "are women 
then to remain Protestants?" "Oh, no," answered White, "the good 
lady will re-appear, only in another character; she will be a widow." 
"And who will take her present place?" "A sacristan," answered 



White; "a sacristan in a cotta. Do you like the short cotta or the 
long?" he continued, turning to the younger lady. "I?" answered 
Miss Charlotte; "I always forget, but I think you told us the Roman 
was the short one; I'm for the short cotta." "You know, Charlotte," 
said Miss Bolton, "that there's a great reform going on in England in 
ecclesiastical vestments." "I hate all reforms," answered Charlotte, 
"from the Reformation downwards. Besides, we have got some wav 
in our cope; have you seen it, Mr. White? it's such a sweet pattern." 
"Have you determined what you mean to do with it?" asked Willis. 
"Time enough to think of that," said Charlotte; "it'll take four years 
to fmish." "Four years!" cried White; "we shall be all real Cathohcs 
by then; England will be converted." "It will be done just in time for 
the Bishop," said Charlotte. "Oh, it's not good enough for him," 
said Miss Bolton; "but it may do in church for the Asperses. How 
different all things will be!" continued she; "yet I don't quite Hke, 
though, the idea of a Cardinal in Oxford. Must we be so very 
Roman? I don't see why we might not be quite Catholic without 
the Pope." "Oh, you need not be afraid," said White, sagely; "things 
don't go so apace. Cardinals are not so cheap." "Cardinals have so 
much state and stiffness," said Miss Bolton; "I hear they never walk 
without two servants behind them; and they always leave the room 
directly dancing begins." "Well, I think Oxford must be just cut 
out for Cardinals," said Miss Charlotte; "can any thing be duller 
than the President's parties? I can fancy Dr. Bone a Cardinal, as he 
walks round the Parks." "Oh, it's the genius of the Catholic 
Church," said White; "you will understand it better in time. No one 
is his own master; even the Pope cannot do as he will; he dines by 
himself, and speaks by precedent." "Of course he does," said 
Charlotte, "for he is infalhble." "Nay, if he makes mistakes in the 
functions," continued White, "he is obhged to write them down and 
confess them, lest they should be drav^oi into precedents." "And he 
is obliged, during a function, to obey the master of ceremonies, 
against his own judgment," said Willis. "Didn't you say the Pope 
confessed, Mr. White?" asked Miss Bolton; "it has always puzzled 
me whether the Pope was obhged to confess like another man." 
"Oh, certainly," answered White, "every one confesses." "Well," 
said Charlotte, "I can't fancy Mr. Hurst of St. Peter's, who comes here 
to sing glees, confessing, or some of the grave Heads of houses, who 
bow so stiffly." "They will all have to confess," said White. "All?" 



asked Miss Bolton; "you don't mean converts confess? I thought it 
was only old Catholics." There was a little pause. 

"And what will the Heads of houses be?" asked Miss Charlotte. 
"Abbots or Superiors," answered White; "they will bear crosses; and 
when they say mass, there will be a hghted candle in addition." 
"What a good portly abbot the Vice-Chancellor will make!" said 
Miss Bolton. "Oh, no; he's too short for an abbot," said her sister; 
"but you have left out the Chancellor liimself: you seem to have 
provided for every one else; what will become of him?" "The 
Chancellor is my difficulty," said White gravely. "Make him a 
Knight-Templar," said Willis. "The Duke's a queer hand," said 
White, still thoughtfully; "there's no knowing what he'll come to. 
A Knight-Templar — yes; Malta is now English property; he might 
revive the order." The ladies both laughed. "But you have not 
completed your plan, Mr. White," said Miss Bolton: "the Heads of 
houses have got wives; how can they become monks?" "Oh, the 
wives will go into convents," said White; "Willis and I have been 
making inquiries in the High Street, and they are most satisfactory. 
Some of the houses there were once university-halls and inns, and 
will easily turn back into convents: all that will be wanted is grating 
to the windows." "Have you any notion what order they ought to 
join?" said Miss Charlotte, "That depends on themselves," said 
White; "no compulsion whatever must be put on them. They are 
the judges. But it would be useful to have two convents — one of an 
active order, and one contemplative: Ursuline, for instance, and 
Carmelite of St. Theresa's reform." 

Hitherto their conversation had been on the verge of jest and 
earnest; now it took a more pensive, or even tenderer tone. "The 
nuns of St. Theresa are very strict, I believe, Mr. White," said Miss 
Bolton. "Yes," he made reply; "I have fears for the Mrs. Wardens 
and Mrs. Principals who undertake it." "Perhaps younger persons," 
she said timidly, "might more fitly lead the way." They had got 
home, and White politely rang the bell. "Young persons," said 
White, "are too delicate for such a sacrifice." She was silent; pres- 
ently she said, "And what will you be, Mr. White?" "I know not," 
he answered; "I have thought of the Cistercians: they never speak." 
"Oh, the dear Cistercians!" she said; "St. Bernard, wasn't it? — sweet 
heavenly man, and so young! I have seen his picture: such eyes!" 
White was a good-looking man. The nun and monk looked at each 

N— K 145 


Other very respectfully, and bowed; the other pair went through a 
similar ceremony; then it was performed diagonally. The two ladies 
entered their home; the two gentlemen retired. 

We must follow the former up-stairs. When they entered the 
drawing-room, they found their mother sitting at the window in her 
bonnet and shawl, dipping into a chance volume in that unsettled 
state which implies that a person is occupied, if it may be so called, 
in waiting, more than in any thing else. "My dear children," she said 
as they entered, "where have you been? the bells have stopped a good 
quarter of an hour: I fear we must give up going to church this 
morning." "Impossible, dear mamma," answered Miss Bolton; "we 
went out punctually at half-past nine; we did not stop two minutes 
at your worsted-shop; and here we are back again." "The only 
tiling we did besides," said Charlotte, "was to look in at St. James's, 
as the door was open, to say a word or two to poor old Wiggins. 
Mr. White was there, and liis friend Mr. WiUis; and they saw us 
home." "Oh, I understand," answered Mrs. Bolton; "that is the way 
when young gentlemen and ladies get together: but, at any rate, we 
are late for church." "Oh, no," said Charlotte, "let us set out 
directly; we shall get in by the first lesson." "My dear child, how can 
you propose such a thing?" said her mother; "I would not do so for 
any consideration; it is so very disgraceful. Better not go at all." 
"Oh, dearest mamma," said the elder sister, "this certainly 15 a 
prejudice. Why always come in at one time? there is something so 
formal in people coming in all at once, and waiting for each other. 
It is surely more reasonable to come in when you can: so many things 
may hinder persons." "Well, my dear Louisa," said her mother, 
"I like the old way. It used always to be said to us. Be in your seats 
before 'When the wicked man,' and at latest before the 'Dearly 
beloved.' That's the good old-fashioned way. And Mr, Jones and 
Mr. Pearson used always to sit at least five minutes in the desk to give 
us some law, and used to look round before beginning; and Mr. 
Jones used frequently to preach against late-comers. I can't argue, 
but it seems to me reasonable that good Christians should hear the 
whole service. They might as well go out before it's over." "Well, 
but, mamma," said Charlotte, "so it is abroad: they come in and go 
out when they please. It's so devotional." "My dear girl," said Mrs. 
Bolton, "I am too old to understand all this; it's beyond me. I suppose 
Mr. White has been saying all this to you. He's a good young man, 



very amiable and attentive, I have nothing to say against him, except 
that he is young, and he'll change his view of things when he gets 
older." "While we talk, time's going," said Louisa; "is it quite 
impossible we should still go to church?" "My dear Louisa, I would 
not v/alk up the aisle for the world; positively I should sink into the 
earth: such a bad example. How can you dream of such a thing?" 
"Then, I suppose, nothing's to be done," said Louisa, taking off her 
bonnet; "but really it is very sad to make worship so cold and formal 
a thing. Twice as many people would go to church, if they might be 
late," "Well, my dear, all things are changed now: in my younger 
days, Catholics were the formal people, and we were the devotional; 
now it's just the reverse," "But isn't it so, dear mamma?" said 
Charlotte; "isn't it something much more beautiful, this continued 
concourse, flowing and ebbing, changing yet full, than a way of 
praying which is as wooden as the reading-desk? — it's so free and 
natural," "Free and easy, / think," said her mother; "for shame, 
Charlotte! how can you speak against the beautiful Church-service! 
you pain me," "I don't," answered Charlotte; "it's a mere puritanical 
custom, which is no more part of our Church than the pews are," 
"Common prayer is offered to all who can come," said Louisa; 
"church should be a privilege, not a mere duty," "Well, my dear 
love, this is more than I can follow. There was young George Aston 
— he always left before the sermon; and when taxed with it, he said he 
could not bear an heretical preacher: a boy of eighteen!" "But, 
dearest mamma," said Charlotte, "what is to be done when a preacher 
is heretical? what else can be done? — it's so distressing to a Catholic 
mind." "Catholic, Catholic!" cried Mrs, Bolton, rather vexed; "give 
me good old George the Third and the Protestant religion. Those 
were t he times! Every thing went on quietly then. We had no 
dispu tes or divisions; no differences in families. But now it is all 
otherwise JMy head is turned, I declare; I hear so many strange, 
out-of-the-way things." 

The young ladies did not answer; one looked out of the window, 
the other prepared to leave the room, "Well, it's a disappointment to 
us all," said their mother; "you first hindered me going, then I have 
hindered you. But I suspect, dear Louisa, mine is the greater dis- 
appointment of the two," Louisa turned round from the window. 
"I value the Prayer-book as you cannot do, my love," she continued; 
"for I have known what it is to one in deep affliction. May it be 



long, dearest girls, before you know it in a similar way; but if 
affliction conies on you, depend on it, all these new fancies and 
fashions will vanish from you like the wind, and the good old 
Prayer-book alone will stand you in any stead." They were both 
touched. "Come, my dears; I have spoken too seriously," she added. 
"Go and take your things off, and come and let us have some quiet 
work before luncheon-time." 


Some persons fidget at intellectual difficulties, and, successfully or not, 
are ever trying to solve them. Charles was of a different cast of 
temper; a new idea was not lost on him, but it did not distress him, 

\ if it was obscure, or conflicted with his habitual view of tilings. He 
let it work its way and fmd its place, and shape itself within him, by 
the slow spontaneous action of the mind. Yet perplexity is not in 
itself a pleasant state; and he would have hastened its removal, had 

4ie been able. 

By means of conversations, such as those which we have related, 
(to which many others might be added, which we spare the reader's 
patience,) and from the diversities of view which he met with in 
the University, he had now come, in the course of a year, to one or 
two conclusions, not very novel, but very important:— first, that 
tliere are a great many opinions in the world on the most momentous 
subjects; secondly, that all are not equally true; thirdly, that it is a 
duty to hold true opinions; and, fourthly, that it is uncommonly 

* difficult to get hold of them. He had been accustomed, as we have 

^een, to fix his mind on persons, not on opinions, and to determine 
to like what was good in every one: but he had now come to perceive 
that, to say the least, it_was not respectable to hold false opinions. 
It did not matter that such false opinions were sincerely held, — he 
could not feel that respect for a person who held what Sheffield 
called a sham, with which he regarded him who held a reaHty. 
White and Bateman were cases in point: they were very good fellows, 
but he could not endure their unreal way of talking, though they did 
not feel it to be unreal themselves. In like manner, if the Roman 
Catholic system was untrue, so far was plain, (putting aside higher 


Ih, '£u>^'^ St^'^ 



considerations,) that a person who beUeved in the power of Saints, 
and prayed to them, was an actor in a great sham, let him be as 
sincere as he would. He mistook words for tilings, and so far forth 
he could not respect him more than he respected White or Bateman. 
And so of a Unitarian; if he believed the power of unaided human 
nature to be what it was not; if by birth man is fallen, and he thought 
him upright, he was holding an absurdity. He might redeem and 
Cover this blot by a thousand excellences, but a blot it would remain; 
just as we should feel a handsome man disfigured by the loss of an 
eye or a hand. And so again, if a professing Christian made the 
Almighty a being of simple benevolence, and He was, on the contrary 
what the Church of England teaches, a God who punishes for the 
sake of justice, such a person was making an idol or unreality the 
object of his religion, and (apart from more serious thoughts about 
him) he could not respect him. Thus the principle of dogmatism 
gradually became an essential element in Charles's rehgious views. 

Gradually, and imperceptibly to himself; for the thoughts which 
we have been tracing only came on him at spare times, and were 
taken up at intervals from the point at which they were laid down. 
His lectures and other duties of the place, his friends and recreations, 
were the staple of the day; but there was this under-current, ever in 
motion, and sounding in his mental ear as soon as other sounds were 
hushed. As he dressed in the morning, as he sat under the beeches of 
his college-garden, when he strolled into the Meadow, when he went 
into the town to pay a bill or make a call, when he threw himself on 
his sofa after shutting his oak at night, thoughts cognate with those 
which have been described were busy within him. 

Discussions, however, and inquiries, as far as Oxford could aftord 
matter for them, were for a while drawing to an end; for Trinity-tide 
was now past, and the Commemoration was close at hand. On the 
Sunday before it, the University sermon happened to be preached by 
a distinguished person, whom that solemnity brought up to Oxford; 
no less a man than the Very Rev. Dr. Brownsidc, the new Dean of 
Nottingham, some time Huntingdonian Professor of Di\dnit)% and 
one of the acutcst, if not soimdest, academical thinkers of the day. He 
was a Httle, prim, smirking, bespectacled man, bald in front, witli 
curly black hair behind, somewhat pompous in his manner, with a 
clear musical utterance, wliich enabled one to listen to him without 
effort. As a divine, he seemed never to have had any ditiiculty on 



any subject; he was so clear or so shallow, that he saw to the bottom 
of all his thoughts; or, since Dr. Jolinson tells us that "all shallows are 
clear," wc may perhaps distinguish him by both epithets. Revelation 
to him, instead of being the abyss of God's counsels, with its dim 
outlines and broad shadows, was a flat sunny plain, laid out with 
straight macadamised roads. Not, of course, that he denied the Divine 
incomprehensibility itself, with certain heretics of old; but he main- 
tained that in Revelation all that was mysterious had been left out, 
and nothing given us but what was practical, and directly concerned 
us. It was, moreover, to him a marvel, that every one did not agree 
with him in taking this simple, natural view, which he thought 
almost self-evident; and he attributed the phenomenon, which was 
by no means uncoimnon, to some want of clearness of head, or twist 
of mind, as the case might be. He was a popular preacher; that is, 
though he had few followers, he had numerous hearers; and on tliis 
occasion the church was overflowing with the young men of the place. 
He began his sermon by observing, that it was not a little remark- 
able that there were so few good reasoners in the world, considering 
that the discursive faculty was one of the characteristics of man's 
nature, as contrasted with brute animals. It had indeed been said 
that brutes reasoned; but this was an analogical sense of the word 
'reason,' and an instance of that very ambiguity of language, or con- 
fusion of thought, on which he was animadverting. In like mamier, 
we say that the reason why the wind blows is, that there is a change of 
temperature in the atmosphere; and the reason why the bells ring is, 
because the ringers pull them; but who would say that the wind 
reasons, or that bells reason"^ There was, he believed, no well- 
ascertained fact (an emphasis on the word fact) of brutes reasoning. 
It had been said, indeed, that that sagacious animal, the dog, if, in 
tracking his master, he met three ways, after smelhng the two, boldly 
pursued the third without any such previous investigation; which, if 
true, would be an instance of a disjunctive hypothetical syllogism. 
Also Dugald Stewart spoke of the case of a monkey cracking nuts 
behind a door, which, not being a strict imitation of anytliing which 
he could have actually seen, implied an operation of abstraction, by 
which the clever brute had first ascended to the general notion of 
nut-crackers, which perhaps he had seen in a particular instance, in 
silver or in steel, at his master's table, and then, descending, had 
embodied it, thus obtained, in the shape of an expedient of his own 



devising. This was what had been said: however, he might assume 
on the present occasion, that the faculty of reasoning was cliar- 
acteristic of the human species; and this being the case, it certainly 
was remarkable that so few persons reasoned well. 

After this introduction, he proceeded to attribute to this defect 
the number of religious differences in the world. He said that the 
most celebrated questions in religion were but verbal ones; that the 
disputants did not know their own meaning, or that of their oppon- 
ents; and that a spice of good logic would have put an end to dis- 
sensions which had troubled the world for centuries, — would have 
prevented many a bloody war, many a fierce anathema, many a 
savage execution, and many a ponderous folio. He went on to imply 
that in fact there was no truth or falsehood in received dogmas in 
theology; that they were modes, neither good nor bad in themselves, 
but personal, national, or periodic, in which the intellect reasoned 
upon the great truths of religion; that the fault lay, not in holding 
them, but in insisting on them, which was like insisting on a Hindoo 
dressing like a Fin, or a regiment of dragoons using the boomerang. 

He proceeded to observe, that from what he had said, it was plain 
in what point of view the Anglican formularies were to be regarded; 
viz. they were our mode of expressing everlasting truths, which might 
be as well expressed in other ways, as any correct thinker would be 
able to see. Nothing, then, was to be altered in them; they were to 
be retained in their integrity; but it was ever to be borne in mind that 
they were Anglican theology, not theology in the abstract; and that 
though the Athanasian creed was good for us, it did not follow that 
it was good for our neighbours; rather, that what seemed the very 
reverse might suit others better, might be their mode of expressing the 
same truths. 

He concluded with one word in favour of Nestorius, two for 
Abelard, three for Luther, "that great mind," as he worded it, "who 
saw that churches, creeds, rites, persons, were nought in religion, and 
that the inward spirit, faith J' as he himself expressed it, "was all in 
all;" and with a hint that nothing would go well in the University 
till this great principle was so far admitted, that they should, — not, 
indeed, give up their own distinctive formularies, no, — but consider 
their direct contradictories equally pleasing to the divine Author of 

Charles did not understand the full drift of the sermon; but he 



understood enough to make iiim feel that it was different from any 
sermon he had heard in liis Hfe. He more than doubted, whether, if 
his good father had heard it, he would not have made it an exception 
to his favourite dictum. He came away marvelling with liimself 
what the preacher could mean, and whether he had misunderstood 
him. Did he mean that Unitarians were only bad reasoners, and 
might be as good Christians as orthodox behevers? He could mean 
notliing else. But what if, after all, he was right? He indulged the 
thought awhile. "Then every one is what Sheffield calls a sham, more 
or less; and we need not be annoyed at any one. Then I was right 
originally in wishing to take every one for what he was. Let me 
think; every one a sham . . . shams are respectable, or rather no one 
is respectable. We can't do without some outward form of belief; 
one is not truer than another; that is, all are equally true . . . All are 
true . . . That is the better way of taking it; none are shams, all are 
true. All are truel impossible; One as true as another! why then it 
is as true that our Lord is a mere man, as that He is God. He could 
not possibly mean tliis; what did he mean?" 

SoCharles went on, painfully perplexed, yet out of tliis perplexity 
tivo_convictions came upon him, the first of them painful too; — 
that he could not take for gospel every tiling that was said even by 
authorities of the place and divines of name; and next, that his 
former amiable feeling of taking every one for what he was, was a 
dangerous one, leading with little difficulty to a sufferance of every 
sort of belief, and legitimately terminating in the sentiment expressed 
ill Pope's Universal Prayer, which his father had always held up to 
him a s a pattern specimen of shallow philosophism: 

"Father of all, in every age. 

In every chme adored. 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord." 


Charles went up this term for his first examination, and this caused 
him to remain in Oxford some days after the undergraduate part of 
his college had left for the Long Vacation. Thus he came across Mr. 


'lou Vm^^t^^-^^ 

jlMiA^ " 


Vincent, one of the junior tutors, who was kind enough to ask him to 
dlnc"in Common-room on Sunday, and on several mornings made 
him take some turns with him up and down the Fellows' walk in the 

A few years make a great difference in the standing of men at 
Oxford, and this made Mr. Vincent what is called a don in the eyes of 
persons who were very little younger than himself Besides, Vincent 
looked much older than he really was; he was of a full habit, with a 
florid complexion and large blue eyes, and shewed a deal of linen at 
liis bosom, and full wristbands at his cuffs. Though a clever man, and 
a hard reader and worker, and a capital tutor, he was a good feeder 
as well; he ate and drank, he walked and rode, with as much heart as 
he lectured in Aristotle, or crammed in Greek plays. What is stranger 
still, with all this he was something of a valetudinarian. He had come 
off from school on a foundation fellowship, and had the reputation 
both at school and in the University of being a first-rate scholar. He 
was a strict disciplinarian in his way, had the undergraduates under his 
thumb, and, having some bonhomie in his composition, was regarded 
by them with mingled feelings of fear and good will. They laughed 
at him, but carefully obeyed him. Besides this, he preached good 
sermons, read prayers with unction, and in his conversation some- 
times had even a touch of evangelical spirituality. The young men 
even declared they could tell how much port he had taken in 
Common-room by the devoutness of his responses in evening chapel; 
and it was on record that once, during the Confession, he had, in the 
heat of his contrition, shoved over the huge velvet cushion in which 
his elbows were imbedded, upon the heads of the gentlemen com- 
moners who sat under him. 

He had just so much originality of mind as gave him an excuse 
for being "his own party" in religion, or what he himself called 
being "no party man;" and just so little that he was ever mistaking 
shams for truths, and converting pompous nothings into oracles. He 
was oracular in his manner, denounced parties and party spirit, and 
thought to avoid the one and the other by eschewing all persons, and 
holding all opinions. He had a great idea of the via media being the 
truth; and to obtain it, thought it enough to flee from extremes, 
without having any very defmite mean to fiee to. He had not clear- 
ness of intellect enough to pursue a truth to its limits, nor boldness 
enough to hold it in its simplicity; but he was always saying things 



and unsaying them, balancing his thoughts in impossible positions, 
and guarding his words by unintelligible limitations. As to the men 
and opinions of the day and place, he would in the main have agreed 
with them, had he let himself alone; but he was determined to have 
an intellect of his own, and this put liim to great shifts when he would 
distinguish himself from them. Had he been older than they, he 
would have talked of "young heads," "hot heads," and the like; but 
since they were grave and cool men, and outran him by fourteen or 
fifteen years, he found nothing better than to shake his head, mutter 
against party spirit, refuse to read their books, lest he should be 
obliged to agree with them, and make a boast of avoiding their 
society. At the present moment he was on the point of starting for a 
continental tour to recruit himself after the labours of an Oxford 
year; meanwhile he was keeping hall and chapel open for such men 
as were waiting either for Responsions, or for their battel-money; 
and he took notice of Reding as a clever modest youth, of whom 
something might be made. Under this view of him, he had, among 
other civihties, asked him to breakfast a day or two before he went 

A tutor's breakfast is always a difficult affair both for host and 
guests; and Vincent piqued liimself on the tact with which he man- 
aged it. The material part was easy enough; there were rolls, toast, 
muffins, eggs, cold lamb, strawberries, on the table; and in due season 
the college-servant brought in mutton cutlets and broiled ham; and 
every one ate to his heart's, or rather his appetite's, content. It was a 
more arduous undertaking to provide the running accompaniment 
of thought, or at least of words, without which the breakfast would 
have been little better than a pig-trough. The conversation, or rather 
mono-polylogue, as some great performer calls it, ran in somewhat 
of the following strain: — 

"Mr. Bruton, what news from Staffordsliire? Are the potteries 
pretty quiet now? Our potteries grow in importance. You need not 
look at the cup and saucer before you, Mr. Catley; these come from 
Derbyshire. But you find English crockery every where on the 
continent. I myself found half a willow-pattern saucer in the crater 
of Vesuvius. Mr. Sikes, I think yon have been in Italy?" "No, sir," 
said Sikes; "I was near going; my family set off a fortnight ago, but 
I was kept here by these confounded smalls." "Your Rcsponsiotics," 
answered the tutor, in a tone of rebuke; "an unfortunate delay for 



you, for it is to be an unusually fine season, if the meteorologists of 
the sister University are right in their predictions. Who is in the 
Responsion schools, Mr. Sikes?" "Butson of Leicester is the strict 
one, sir; he plucks one man in three. He plucked last week Patch of 
St. George's, and Patch has taken his oath he'll shoot him; and 
Butson has walked about ever since with a bull-dog." "These are 
reports, Mr. Sikes, which often flit about, but must not be trusted. 
Mr. Patch could not have given a better proof that his rejection was- 

A pause — during which poor Vincent hastily gobbled up two or 
three mouthfuls of bread and butter, the knives and forks meanwhile 
clinking upon his guests' plates. "Sir, is it true," began one of them 
at length, "that the old Principal is going to be married?" "These are 
matters, Mr. Shaw," answered Vincent, "which we should always 
inquire about at the fountain-head; antiquam cxquiritc inatreni, or 
rather patrem; ha, ha! Take some more tea, Mr. Reding; it won't 
hurt your nerves. I am rather choice in my tea; this comes overland 
through Russia; the sea-air destroys the flavour of our common tea. 
Talking of air, Mr. Tenby, I think you are a chemist. Have you paid 
attention to the recent experiments on the composition and resolution 
of air? Not? I am surprised at it; they are well worth your most 
serious consideration. It is now pretty well ascertained that inhaling 
gases is the cure for all kinds of diseases. People are beginning to talk 
of the gas-cure, as they did of the water-cure. The great foreign 
chemist. Professor Scaramouch, has the credit of the discovery. The 
effects are astounding, quite astounding; and there are several re- 
markable coincidences. You know medicines are always unpleasant, 
and so these gases are always fetid. The Professor cures by stenches; 
and has brought his science to such perfection that he actually can 
classify them. There are six elementary stenches, and these spread 
into a variety of subdivisions. What do you say, Mr. Reding? 
Distinctive? Yes, there is something very distinctive in smells. But 
what is most gratifying of all, and is the great coincidence I spoke of, 
his ultimate resolution of fetid gases assigns to them the very same 
precise number as is given to existing complaints in the latest treatises 
on pathology. Each complaint has its gas. And, what is still more 
singular, an exhausted receiver is a specific for certain desperate dis- 
orders. For instance, it has effected several cures of hydrophobia. 
Mr. Seaton," he continued to a freshman, who, his breakfast finished, 



was sitting uncomfortably on liis chair, looking down, and playing 
with his knife — "Mr. Seaton, you are looking at that picture" — it 
was almost behind Seaton's back — "I don't wonder at it; it was given 
me by my good old mother, who died many years ago. It represents 
some beautiful ItaHan scenery." 

Vincent stood up, and his party after him, and all crowded round 
the picture. "I prefer the green of England," said Reding. "England 
has not that brilliant variety of colour," said Tenby. "But there is 
sometliing so soothing in green." "You know, of course, Mr. 
Reding," said the tutor, "that there is plenty of green in Italy, and in 
winter even more than in England; only there are other colours too." 
"But I can't help fancying," said Charles, "that that mixture of 
colours takes off the repose of Enghsh scenery." "The repose, for 
instance," said Tenby, "of Binsey Common or Port Meadow in 
winter." "Say in summer," said Reding; "if you choose place, I 
will choose time. I think the University goes down just when 
Oxford begins to be most beautiful. The walks and meadows are so 
fragrant and bright now, the hay half carried, and the short new grass 
1 ^yj/t/^^^'^ appearing." "Reding ought to hve here all through the Long," said 
),^V y\^'' Taiby: "does any one live through the Vacation, sir, in Oxford?" 
\tJJ^^^ H-Do you mean they die before the end of it, Mr. Tenby?" asked 

Vincent. "It can't be denied," he continued, "that many, like Mr. 
Reding, think it a most pleasant time. I am fond of Oxford; but it is 
not my habitat out of term-time." "Well, I think I should like to 
make it so," said Charles; "but, I suppose, undergraduates are not 
allowed." Mr. Vincent answered with more than necessary gravity, 
"No;" it rested with the Principal; but he conceived that he would 
not consent to it. Vincent added that certainly there were parties 
who remained in Oxford through the Long Vacation. It was said 
mysteriously. Charles answered that, if it was against college-rules, 
there was no help for it; else, were he reading for his degree, he should 
like nothing better than to pass the Long Vacation in Oxford, if he 
might judge by the pleasantness of the last ten days. "That is a 
comphment, Mr. Reding, to your company," says Vincent. 

At this moment the door opened, and in came the manciple with 
the diimer-paper, which Mr. Vincent had formally to run his eye 
over, "Watkins," he said, giving it back to him, "I almost think 
today is one of the Fasts of the Church. Go and look, Watkins, and 
bring me word." The astonished manciple, who had never been sent 





on such a commission in his whole career before, hastened out of the 
room, to task his wits how best to fulfil it. The question seemed to 
strike the company as forcibly, for there was a sudden silence, which 
was succeeded by a shuffling of feet and a leave-taking; as if, though 
they had secured their ham and mutton at breakfast, they did not 
like to risk their dinner. Watkins returned sooner than could have 
been expected. He said that Mr. Vincent was right; today he had 
found v/as "the feast of the Apostles." "The Vigil of St. Peter, you 
mean, Watkins," said Mr. Vincent; "I thought so. Then, let us have 
a plain beefsteak and saddle of mutton; no Portugal onions, Watkins, 
or currant jelly; and some simple pudding, Charlotte pudding, 
Watkins — that will do." 

Watkins vanished. By this time, Charles found himself alone with 
the college authority; who began to speak to him in a more con- 
fidential tone. "Mr. Reding," said he, "I did not like to question you 
before the others, but I conceive you had no particular meaning in 
your praise of Oxford in the Long Vacation? In the mouths of some 
it would have been suspicious." Charles was all surprise, "To tell 
the truth, Mr. Reding, as things stand," he proceeded, "it is often a 
mark o{ party, tliis residence in the Vacation; though, of course, there 
is nothing in the thing itself but what is perfectly natural and right." 
Charles was all attention. "My good sir," the tutor proceeded, 
"avoid parties; be sure to avoid party. You are young in your career 
among us. I always feel anxious about young men of talent; there 
is the greatest danger of the talent of the University being absorbed in 
party." Reding expressed a hope, that nothing he had done had 
given cause to his tutor's remark. "No," replied Mr. Vincent, "no;" 
yet with some slight hesitation; "no, I don't know that it has. But I 
have thought some of your remarks and questions at lecture were 
like a person pushing tilings too far, and wishing to form a system.'' 
Charles was so much taken aback by the charge, that the unexplained 
mystery of the Long Vacation went out of his head. He said, he was 
"very sorry," and "obliged;" and tried to recollect what he could 
have said to give ground to Mr. Vincent's remark. Not being able 
at the moment to recollect, he went on. "I assure you, sir, I know so 
little of parties in the place, that I hardly know their leaders. I have 
heard persons mentioned, but, if I tried, I think I should, in some 
cases, mismatch names and opinions." "I believe it," said Vincent; 
"but you are young; I am cautioning you against tcfuicticics. You 



may suddenly find yourself absorbed before you know where you 

Charles thought this a good opportunity of asking some questions 
in detail, about points which puzzled him. He asked whether Dr. 
Brownside was considered a safe divine to follow. "I hold, d'ye 
see," answered Vincent, "that all errors are counterfeits of truth. 
Clever men say true things, Mr. Reding, true in their substance, but," 
sinking his voice to a whisper, "they go too far. It might even be 
shewn that all sects are in one sense but parts of the Catholic Church. 
I don't say true parts, that is a further question; but they embody 
great principles. The Quakers represent the principle of simphcity 
and evangelical poverty; they even have a dress of their ov^oi, like 
monks. The Independents represent the rights of the laity; the 
Wesleyans cherish the devotional principle; the Irvingites, the sym- 
bolical and mystical; the High Church party, the principle of obedi- 
ence; the Liberals are the guardians of reason. No party, then, I 
conceive, is entirely right or entirely wrong. As to Dr. Brownside, 
there certainly have been various opinions entertained about his 
divinity; still he is an able man, and I think you will gain^ooJ, gain 
good from his teaching. But mind, I don't recommend liim; yet 1 
respect him, and I consider that he says many things very well worth 
your attention. I would advise you, then, to accept the good which 
his sermons offer, without committing yourself to the bad. That, 
depend upon it, Mr. Reding, is the golden though the obvious 
rule in these matters." 

Charles said, in answer, that Mr. Vincent was overrating his 
powers; that he had to learn before he could judge; and that he wished 
very much to know whether Vincent could recommend liim any 
book, in which he might see at once what the true Church-of- 
England doctrine was on a number of points which perplexed him. 
Mr. Vincent replied, that he must be on his guard against dissipating 
his mind with such reading, at a time when his University duties had 
a definite claim upon him. He ought to avoid all controversies of the 
day, all authors of the day. He would advise him to read no living 
authors. "Read dead authors alone," he continued; "dead authors 
arc saf?. Our great divines," and he stood upright, "were models; 
'there were giants on the earth in those days,' as King George the 
Third had once said of them to Dr. Johnson. They had that depth, 
and power, and gravity, and fuhiess, and erudition; and they were 



SO racy, always racy, and what might be called English. They had 
that richness too, such a mine of thought, such a v/orld of opinion, 
such activity of mind, such inexhaustible resource, such diversity too. 
Then they were so eloquent; the majestic Hooker, the imaginative 
Taylor, the brilliant Hall, the learning of Barrow, the strong sense of 
South, the keen logic of Chillingworth, good honest old Burnet," 
&c. &c. 

There did not seem much reason why he should stop at one 
moment more than another; at length, however, he did stop. It was 
prose, but it was pleasant prose to Charles; he knew just enough 
about these writers to feel interested in hearing them talked about, 
and to him Vincent seemed to be saying a good deal, when in fact he 
was saying very little. When he stopped, Charles said he believed 
that there were persons in the University who were promoting the 
study of these authors. Mr. Vincent looked grave. "It is true," he 
said; "but, my young friend, I have already hinted to you that in- 
different tilings arc perverted to the purposes of party. At this 
moment the names of some of our greatest divines are Httle better 
than a watchword, by which the opinions of living individuals are 
signified." "Which opinions, I suppose," he answered, "are not to 
be found in those authors." "I'll not say that," said Mr. Vincent. 
"I have the greatest respect for the individuals in question, and I am 
not denying that they have done good to our Church by drawing 
attention in this lax day to the old Church-of-England divinity. But 
it is one thing to agree wdth these gentlemen; another," laying his 
hand on Charles's shoulder, "another to belong to their party. Do 
not make man your master; get good from all; tolerate all opinions; 
think well of all persons, and you will be a wise man." 

Reding inquired, with some timidity, if tliis was not something like 
what Dr. Brownside had said in the University pulpit; but perhaps the 
latter advocated a toleration of opinions in a different sense? Mr. 
Vincent answered rather shortly, that he had not heard Dr. Brown- 
side's sermon; but, for himself, he had been speaking onh'- of persons 
in our own communion. "Our Church," he said, "admitted of great 
liberty of thought within her pale. Even our greatest divines differed 
from each other in many respects; nay, Bishop Taylor difi'crcd from 
himself. It was a great principle in the English Church. Her true 
children agree to differ. In truth," he continued, "there is that robust 
masculine, noble independence in the English mind, which refuses to 


j/yV\.6^ lb L LOSS AND GAIN I ^y h 

be tied down to artificial shapes; but is like, I will say, some great and 
beautiful production of nature, — a tree, whicli is rich in foliage and 
fantastic in limb, no sickly denizen of the hothouse, or helpless 
dependent of the garden-wall, but in careless magnificence sheds its 
fruits upon the free earth, for the bird of the air and the beast of the 
field, and all sorts of cattle, to eat thereof and rejoice." 

When Charles came away, he tried to think what he had gained 
by his conversation with Mr. Vincent; not exactly what he had 
wanted, some practical rules to guide his mind and keep him steady, 
but still some useful hints. He had already been averse to parties, 
and offended at what he saw of individuals attached to them. Vincent 
had confirmed him in his resolution to keep aloof from them, and 
to attend to his duties in the place. He felt pleased to have had this 
talk with liim; but what could he mean by suspecting a tendency in 
liimself to push things too far, and thereby to implicate liimself in 
party? He was obliged to resign liimself to ignorance on the subject, 
and to content himself with keeping a watch over himself in future. 

w V \a> chapter XI 

No opportunity has occurred of informing the reader that, during 
the last week or two, ^Charles had accidentally been a good deal 
thrown across Willis, the umbra of White at Batcman's breakfast- 
party. He had liked his looks on that occasion, when he was dumb; 
he did not like him so much when he heard liim talk; still he could 
not help being interested in him, and not the least for tliis reason, that 
Willis seemed to have taken a great fancy to himself. He certainly 
did court Charles, and seemed anxious to stand well with him. 
Charles, however, did not like liis mode of talking better than he did 
White's; and when he first saw his rooms, there was much in them 
which shocked both his good sense and his religious principles. A 
large ivory crucifix, in a glass case, was a conspicuous ornament 
between the windows; an engraving, representing the Blessed 
Trinity, as is usual in Catholic countries, hung over the fire-place; 
and a picture of the Madonna and St. Dominic was opposite to it. 
On the mantel-piece were a rosary, a thuribulum, and other tokens of 
Catholicism, of which Charles did not know the uses; a missal, ritual, 

1 60 




and some Catholic tracts, lay on the table; and, as he happened to 
come on Willis unexpectedly, he found him sitting in a vestment 
more like a cassock than a reading gown, and engaged upon some 
portion of the Breviary, Virgil and Sophocles, Herodotus and Cicero, 
seemed, as impure pagans, to have hid themselves in corners, or 
flitted away, before the awful presence of the Ancient Church. 
Charles had taken upon himself to protest against some of these 
singularities, but without success. 

On the evening before his departure for the country, he had 
occasion to go towards Folly Bridge to pay a bill, when he was 
startled, as he passed what he had ever taken for a dissenting chapel, 
to see Willis come out of it. He hardly could believe he saw correctly: 
he knew, indeed, that Willis had been detained in Oxford, as he had 
been himself; but what had compelled him to a visit so extraordinary 
as that which he had just made, Charles had no means of determining. 
"Willis," he cried, as he stopped. Willis coloured, and tried to look 
easy. "Do come a few paces with me," said Charles. "What in the 
world has taken you there? Is it not a dissenting meeting?" "Dissent- 
ing meeting!" cried Willis, surprised and offended in his turn; "what 
on earth could make you think I would go to a dissenting meeting?" 
"Well, I beg your pardon," said Charles; "I recollect now; it's the 
exhibition-room. However, once it was a chapel: that's my mistake. 
Isn't it what is called the 'Old Methodist Chapel?' I never was there; 
they shewed there the Dio-astro-doxon, so I think they called it." 
Charles talked on, to cover his own mistake, for he was ashamed 
of the charge he had made. WiUis did not know whether he was 
in jest or earnest. "Reding," he said, "don't go on; you offend 
me." "Well, what is it?" said Charles. "You know well enough," 
answered Willis, "though you wish to annoy me." "I don't, indeed." 
"It's the Catholic church," said Wilhs, Reding was silent a moment; 
then he said: "Well, I don't think you have mended the matter; it i^ 
a dissenting meeting, call it what you will; though not the kind of 
one I meant." "What can you mean?" asked Willis. "Rather, what 
mean you by going to such places?" retorted Charles; "why, it is 
against your oath." "My oath! what oath?" "There's not an oath 
now; but there was an oath till lately," said Reding; "and we still 
make a very solemn engagement. Don't you recollect your matricu- 
lation at the Vice-Chancellor's, and what oaths and declarations you 
made?" "I don't know what I made: my tutor told me nothing about 

N — L i6i 


it. I signed a book or two." "You did more," said Reding. "/ 
was told most carefully. You solemnly engaged to keep the statutes; 
and one statute is, not to go into any dissenting chapel or meeting 
whatever." "Catholics are not Dissenters," said Wilhs. "Oh, don't 
speak so," said Charles; "you know it's meant to include them. The 
statute wishes us to keep from all places of worship whatever but our 
own." "But it is an illegal declaration or vow," said Willis, "and so 
not binding." "Where did you fmd that get-off?" said Charles; 
"the priest put that into your head." "I don't know the priest; I 
never spoke a word to him," answered Willis. "Well, any how, 
it's not your own answer," said Reding; "and does not help you. I 
am no casuist; but if it is an illegal engagement, you should not 
continue to enjoy the benefit of it." "What benefit?" "Your cap 
and gown; a university education; the chance of a scholarship, or 
fellowsliip. Give up these, and then plead, if you will, and lawfully, 
that you are quit of your engagement; but don't sail under false 
colours: don't take the benefit, and break the stipulation." "You take 
it too seriously; there are half a hundred statutes yon don't keep, any 
more than I. You are most inconsistent." "Well, if we don't keep 
them," said Charles, "I suppose it is in points where the authorities 
don't enforce them; for instance, they don't mean us to dress in 
brown, though the statutes order it." "But they do mean to keep 
you from walking down the High Street in beaver," answered 
Wilhs; "for the Proctors march up and down, and send you back, 
if they catch you." "But this is a different matter," said Reding, 
changing his ground; "this is a matter of religion. It can't be right 
to go to strange places of worship or meetings." "Why," said Willis, 
"if we are one Church with the Roman Cathohcs, I can't make out, 
for the life of me, how it's wrong for us to go to them, or them to 
us." "I'm no divine, I don't understand what is meant by one 
Church," said Charles; "but I know well that there's not a Bishop, 
not a clergyman, not a sober Churchman in the land but would give 
it against you. It's a sheer absurdity." "Don't talk in that way," 
answered Willis, "please don't. I feel all my heart drawn to the 
Catholic worship; our own service is so cold." "That's just what 
every stiff dissenter says," answered Charles; "every poor cottager 
too, who knows no better, and goes after the Methodists, after dear 
Mr. Spoutaway or the preaching cobbler, she says (I have heard 
them), 'Oh, sir, I suppose we ought to go where wc get most good. 


J^ uyUi ^i^'n^^-^-O - ^tL 1^^ryu<o^ CLuJL 


Mr. So-and-so goes to my heart — he goes through me.' " Wilhs 
laughed; "Well, not a bad reason, as tmics go, / think," said he: 
"poor souls, what better means of judging have they? how can you 
hope they will like 'the Scripture moveth us'? Really you are making 
too much of it. This is only the second time I have been tliere, and, 
I tell you in earnest, I fnid my mind filled with awe and devotion 
there; as I think you would too. I really am better for it: I cannot 
pray in church; there's a bad smell there, and the pews hide every 
thing; I can't see through a deal board. But here, when I went in, 
I found all still and calm, the space open, and, in the twilight, the 
Tabernacle, just visible, pointed out by the lamp." Charles looked 
very uncomfortable. "Really, Willis," he said, "I don't know what 
to say to you. Heaven forbid that I should speak against the Roman 
Catholics; I know nothing about them. But this I know, that you 
are not a Roman Catholic, and have no business there. If they have 
such sacred things among them as you allude to, still these arc not 
yours; you are an intruder. I know nothing about it; I don't like to 
give a judgment, I am sure. But it's a tampering with sacred things; 
running here and there, touching and tasting, taking up, putting 
down. I don't hke it," he added with vehemence; "it's taking liber- 
ties with God." "Oh, my dear Reding, please don't speak so very 
severely," said poor Willis; "now what have I done more than you 
would do yourself, were you in France or Italy? Do you mean to say 
you wouldn't enter the churches abroad?" "I^will only decide about O'^-^^o^ / 
what is before me," answered Reding; "when I go abroad, then will i-T^ * 
"^e the time to think about your question. It is quite enough to know ^-C- 

what we ought to do at the moment, and I am clear you have been 
doing wrong. How did you find your way there?" "White took 
me." "Then there is one man in the world more thoughtless than 
you: do many of the gownsmen go there?" "Not that I know of; 
one or two have gone from curiosity; there is no practice of going, 
at least this is what I am told." "Well," said Charles, "you must 
promise me you will not go again. Come, we won't part till you 
do." "That is too much," said Willis gently; then, disengaging his 
arm from Reding's, he suddenly darted away from him, saying, 
"Good-bye, good-bye; to our next merry meeting — an rci'oir." 

There was no help for it. Charles walked slowly home, saying to 
himself: "What if, after all, the Roman Catholic Church is the true 
Cjiurch? I wish I knew what to believe; no one will tell me what to 



believe; I am so left to myself." Then he thought: "I suppose I know 
quite enough for practice — more than I do practise; and I ought surely 
to be contented and thankful." 


Charles was an affectionate son, and the Long Vacation passed very 
happily at home. He was up early, and read steadily till luncheon, 
and then he was at the service of his father, mother, and sisters for 
the rest of the day. He loved the calm, quiet country; he loved the 
monotonous flow of time, when each day is like the other; and, after 
the excitement of Oxford, the secluded parsonage was like a haven 
beyond the tossing of the waves. The whirl of opinions and perplexi- 
ties which had encircled him at Oxford, now were like the distant 
sound of the ocean — they reminded him of his present security. The 
undulating meadows, the green lanes, the open heath, the common 
with its wide-spreading dusky elms, the high timber wliich fringed 
the level path from village to village, ever and anon broken and 
thrown into groups, or losing itself in copses — even the gate, and the 
stile, and the turnpike-road had the charm, not of novelty, but of 
long familiar use; they had the poetry of many recollections. Nor 
was the dilapidated deformed church, with its outside staircases, its 
unsightly galleries, its wide intruded windows, its uncouth pews, its 
low nunting table, its forlorn vestry, and its damp earthy smell, 
without its pleasant associations to the inner man; for there it was that, 
for many a year, Sunday after Sunday, he had heard his dear father 
read and preach; there were the old monuments, with Latin inscrip- 
tions and strange devices, the black boards with white letters, the 
Resurgams and grinning skulls, the fire-buckets, the faded mihtia- 
colours, and, almost as much a fixture, the old clerk, with a Welsh 
wig over his ears, shouting the responses out of place, — which had 
arrested his imagination, and awed him, when a child. And then, 
there was his home itself; its well-known rooms, its pleasant routine, 
its order, and its comfort, — an old and true friend, the dearer to liim 
because he had made new ones. "Where I shall be in time to come, 
I know not," he said to himself; "I am but a boy; many things which 
J have not a dream of, which my imagination cannot compass, may 



come on mc before I die — if I live; but here at least, and now, I am 
happy, and I will enjoy my happiness. Some say that school is the 
pleasantest time of one's life; this does not exclude college. I suppose 
care is what makes hfc so wearing. At present I have no care, no 
responsibility; I suppose I shall feel a little when I go up for my degree. 
Care is a terrible thing; I have had a httle of it at times at school. What 
a strange thing to fancy, I shall be one day twenty-five or thirty! 
How the weeks arc flying by ! — the Vacation will soon be over ! Oh, 
I am so happy, it quite makes me afraid. Yet I shall have strength for 
my day." 

Sometimes, however, his thoughts took a sadder turn, and he 
anticipated the future more vividly than he enjoyed the present. Mr. 
Malcolm had come to see them, after an absence from the parsonage 
for some years; his visit was a great pleasure to Mr. Reding, and not 
much less to himself, to whom a green home and a family-circle were 
agreeable sights, after his bachelor-life at college. He had been a great 
favourite with Charles and liis sisters as children, though now his 
popularity with them for the most part rested on the memory of the 
past. When he told them amusing stories, or allowed them to climb 
his knee and take off his spectacles, he did all that was necessary to 
gain their childish hearts; more is necessary to conciliate the affection 
of young men and women; and thus it is not surprising that he lived 
in their minds principally by prescription. He neither knew this, nor 
would have thought much about it, if he had; for, like many persons 
of advancing years, he made himself very much his own centre, did 
not care to enter into the minds of others, did not consult for them, 
or fmd his happiness in them. He was kind and friendly to the young 
people, as he would be kind to a canary-bird or a lap-dog; it was 
a sort of external love; and, though they got on capitally with him, 
they did not miss him when gone, nor would have been much 
troubled to know that he was never to come again. Charles drove 
him about the country, stamped his letters, secured him his news- 
papers from the neighbouring town, and listened to his stories about 
Oxford and Oxford men. He really liked him, and wished to please 
him; but, as to consulting him in any serious matter, or going to 
him for comfort in affliction, he would as soon have thought of 
betaking him to Dan the pedlar, or old Isaac who played the Sunday 

"How have your peaches been this year, Malcolm?" said Mr. 



Reding one day after dinner to his guest. "You ought to know that 
we have no peaches in Oxford," answered Mr. Malcohn. "My 
memory plays me false, then; I had a vision of, at least, October 
peaches, on one occasion, and fme ones too." "Ah, you mean at old 
Tom Spindle's the jockey's," answered Mr. Malcolm; "it's true he 
had a bit of brick wall, and was proud of it. But peaches come, when 
there is no one in Oxford to eat them; so either the tree, or at least 
the fruit, is a great rarity there. Oxford wasn't so empty once; you 
have old mulberry-trees there, in record of better days." "At that 
time too," said Charles, "I suppose, the more expensive fruits were 
not cultivated. Mulberries are the witness, not only of a full college, 
but of simple tastes." "Charles is secretly cutting at our hot-house 
here," said Mr. Reding; "as if our first father did not prefer fruits 
and flowers to beef and mutton," "No, indeed," said Charles, "I 
think peaches capital tilings; and as to flowers, I am too fond even of 
scents." "Charles has some theory, then, about scents I'll be bound," 
said his father; "I never knew a boy who so placed his likings and 
dislikings on fancies. He began to eat olives directly he read the 
CEdipus of Sophocles; and, I verily believe, will soon give up oranges 
from his dislike to King William." "Every one does so," said 
Charles: "who would not be in the fashion? There's Aunt Kitty, she 
calls a bonnet 'a sweet' one year, which makes her 'a perfect fright' 
the next." "You're right, papa, in this instance," said his mother; 
"I know he has some good reason, though I never can recollect it, 
why he smells a rose, or distils lavender. What is it, my dear Mary?" 
" 'Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,' " said she. "Why, sir, that was 
precisely your own reason just now," said Charles to his father. 
"There's more than that," said Mrs. Reding, "if I knew what it was." 
"He thinks the scent more intellectual than the other senses," said 
Mary, smiling. "Such a boy for paradoxes !" said his mother. "Well, 
so they are in a certain way," said Charles; "but I can't explain. 
Sounds and scents are more ethereal, less material; they have no 
shape, like the angels." Mr. Malcolm laughed. "Well, I grant it, 
Charles," he said; "they are length without breadth." "Did you ever 
hear the like?" said Mrs. Reding, laughing too; "don't encourage 
him, Mr. Malcolm; you are worse than he. Angels length without 
breadth!" "They pass from place to place, they come, they go," 
continued Mr. Malcolm. "They conjure up the past so vividly," said 



"But sounds surely more than scents," said Mr. Malcolm. "Pardon 
me; the reverse, as / thmk," answered Charles. "That is a paradox, 
Charles," said Mr. Malcolm; "the smell of roast beef never went 
further than to remind a man of dinner; but sounds are pathetic and 
inspiring." "Well, sir, but think of this," said Charles; "scents arc 
both complete in themselves, yet do not consist of parts. Think how 
very distinct the smell of a rose is from a pink, a pink from a sweet- 
pea, a sweet-pea from a stock, a stock from lilac, lilac from lavender, 
lavender from jasmine, jasmine from honeysuckle, honeysuckle from 
hawthorn, hawthorn from hyacinth, hyacinth — " "Spare us," inter- 
rupted Mr. Malcolm; "are you going through the index of Loudon?" 
"And these are only the scents of flowers; how different flowers smell 
from fruits, fruits from spices, spices from roast beef or pork-cutlets, 
and so on. Now, what I was coming to is this — these scents are 
perfectly distinct from each other, and sui generis; they never can be 
confused; yet each is communicated to the apprehension in an instant. 
Sights take up a great space, a tune is a succession of sounds; but scents 
are at once specific and complete, yet indivisible. Who can halve a 
scent? they need neither time nor space; thus they are immaterial or 
spiritual." "Charles hasn't been to Oxford for nothing," said his 
mother, laughing and looking at Mary; "this is what I call chopping 

"Well done, Charles!" cried Mr. Malcolm; "and now, since you 
have such clear notions of the power of smells, you ought, like the 
man in the story, to be satisfied with smelling at your dinner, and 
grow fat upon it. It's a shame you sit down to table." "Well, sir," 
answered Charles, "some people do seem to thrive on snuff at least." 
"For shame, Charles!" said Mr. Malcolm; "you have seen me use 
the common-room snufF-box to keep myself awake after dinner; but 
nothing more. I keep a box in my pocket merely as a bauble: it 
was a present. You should have lived when I was young. There was 
old Dr. Troughton of Nun's Hall, he carried his snuff loose in his 
pocket; and old Mrs. Vice-Principal DafFy used to lay a train along 
her arm, and fire it with her nose. Doctors of medicine took it as 
a preservative against infection, and doctors of divinity against 
drowsiness in church." "They take wine against infection now," 
said Mr. Reding; "it's a much surer protective." "Wine?" cried 
Mr. Malcolm, "oh, they didn't take less wine then, as you and I 
know. On certain solemn occasions they made a point of getting 



drunk, the whole college, from the Vice-Principal or Sub-Warden 
down to the scouts. Heads of houses were kept in order by their 
wives; but I assure you the jolly god came very near Mr. Vice- 
Chancellor liimself. There was old Dr. Sturdy of St. Michael's, a 
great martinet in his time. One day the King passed through Oxford; 
Sturdy, a tall, upright, iron-faced man, had to meet him in procession 
at Magdalen Bridge, and walked down with his pokers before him, 
gold and silver, vergers, cocked hats, and the rest. There wasn't one 
of them that wasn't in hquor. Think of the good old man's horror. 
Majesty in the distance, and his own people swaying to and fro under 
his very nose, and promising to leave him for the gutter before the 
march v/as ended." "No one can get tipsy with snuff, I grant," said 
Mr. Reding; "but if wine has done some men harm, it has done 
others a deal of good." "Hair-powder is as bad as snuff," said Mary, 
preferring the former subject; "there's old Mr. Butler of Cooling; 
his wig is so large and full of powder, that when he nods his head, 
I am sure to sneeze." 

"Ah, but all these are accidents, young lady," said Mr. Malcolm, 
put out by this block to the conversation, and running off somewhat 
testily in another direction; "accidents after all. Old people are always 
the same; so are young. Each age has its own fasliion: if Mr. Butler 
wore no wig, still there would be sometliing about him odd and 
strange to young eyes. Charles, don't you be an old bachelor. No 
one cares for old people. Marry, my dear boy; look out betimes for 
a virtuous young woman, who will make you an attentive wife." 
Charles slightly coloured, and his sister laughed, as if there was some 
understanding between them. Mr. Malcolm continued; "Don't wait 
till you want some one to buy flannel for your rheumatism or gout; 
marry betimes." "You will let me take my degree first, sir?" said 
Charles. "Certainly, your M.A.'s, if you will; but don't become an 
old Fellow. Don't wait till forty; people make the strangest mis- 
takes." "Dear Charles will make a kind affectionate husband, I am 
sure," said his mother, "when the time comes; — and come it will, 
though not just yet. Yes, my dear boy," she added, nodding at him, 
"you will not be able to escape your destiny, when it comes." 
"Charles, you must know," said Mr. Reding to his guest, "is 
romantic in his notions just now. I believe it is, that he thinks no one 
good enough for him. Oh, my dear Charlie, don't let me pain you, 
I meant nothing serious; but somehow he has not hit it off very well 





with some young ladies here, who expected more attention than he 
cared to give." "I am sure,"' said Mary,, "Charles is most attentive 
whenever there is occasion, and always has his eyes about him to do 
a service; only he's a bad hand at small talk." "All will come in time, 
my dear," said his mother; "a good son makes a good husband." 
"And a very loving papa," said Mr. Malcolm. "Oh, spare me, sir," 
said poor Charles; "how have I deserved this?" "Well/' proceeded 
Mr. Malcolm, "and young ladies ought to marry betimes too." "Come, 
Mary, your turn is coming," cried Charles; and taking his sister's 
hand, he threw up the sash, and escaped with her into the garden. 
They crossed the lawn, and took refuge in a shrubbery. "How 
strange it is!" said Mary, as they strolled along the winding walk; 
"we used to like Mr. Malcolm so, as children; but now, I like him 
5fi7/, but he is not the same." "We are older," said her brother; 
"different things take us now." "He used to be so kind," continued 
she; "when he was coming, the day was looked out for; and mamma 
said, 'Take care you be good when Mr. Malcolm comes.' And he 
was sure to bring a twelfth-cake, or a Noah's ark, or something of 
the sort. And then he romped with us, and let us make fun of him," 
"Indeed it isn't he that is changed," said Charles, "but we; we are 
in the time of life to change; we have changed already, and shall 
change still." "What a mercy it is," said liis sister, "that we are so 
happy among ourselves as a family ! If we change, we shall change 
together, as apples of one stock; if one fails, the other does. Thus 
we are always the same to each other." "It is a mercy indeed," said 
Charles; "we are so blessed, that I am sometimes quite frightened." 
His sister looked earnestly at him. He laughed a httle, to turn off the 
edge of his seriousness. "You would know what I mean, dear Mary, 
if you had read Herodotus. A Greek tyrant feared his own excessive 
prosperity, and therefore made a sacrifice to fortune. I mean, he 
gave up something which he held most precious; he took a ring from 
his fmger, and cast it into the sea, lest the Deity should afflict him, 
if he did not afflict himself." "My dear Charles, if we do but enjoy 
God's gifts thankfully, and take care not to set our hearts on them 
or to abuse them, we need not fear for their continuance." "Well," 
said Charles, "there's one text which has ever dwelt on nn' mind, 
'Rejoice with trembling.' I can't take full unrestrained pleasure in 
any thing." "Why not, if you look at it as God's gift?" asked Marv. 
"I don't defend it," he replied; "it's my way; it may be a selfish 



prudence, for what I know; but I am sure, that, did I give my heart to 
any creature, I should be withdrawing it from God. How easily could 
I idolise these sweet walks, which we have known for so many years !" 
They walked on in silence. "Well," said Mary, "whatever we lose, 
no change can affect us as a family. While we are we, we are to each 
other what notliing external can be to us, whether as given or as 
taken away." Charles made no answer. "What has come to you, 
dear Charles?" she said, stopping and looking at him; then, gently 
removing his hair and smoothing his forehead, she said, "You are 
so sad to-day." "Dearest Mary," he made answer, "nothing's the 
matter, indeed. I think it is Mr. Malcolm who has put me out. It's 
so stupid to talk of the prospects of a boy like me. Don't look so, 
I mean nothing; only it annoys me." Mary smiled. "What I mean 
is," continued Charles, "that we can rely on nothing here, and are 
fools if we build on the future." "We can rely on each other," she 
repeated. "Ah, dear Mary, don't say so; it frightens me." She 
looked round at him surprised, and almost frightened herself. 
"Dearest," he continued, "I mean nothing; only every thing is 
so uncertain here below." "We are sure of each other, Charles." 
"Yes, Mary," and he kissed her affectionately, "it is true, most true;" 
then he added, "all I meant was, that it seems presumptuous to say so. 
David and Jonathan were parted; St. Paul and St. Barnabas." Tears 
stood in Mary's eyes. "Oh, what an ass I am," he said, "for thus 
teasing you about nothing; no, I only mean that there is One only 
who cannot die, who never changes, only one. It can't be wrong 
to remember this. Do you recollect Cowper's beautiful lines? I 
know them without having learned them — they struck me so much 
the first time I read them:" — and he repeated them: 
Thou art the source and centre of all minds, 
Their only point of rest. Eternal Word. 
From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove 
At random, without honour, hope, or peace. 
From Thee is all that soothes the life of man. 
His high endeavour, and his glad success. 
His strength to suffer, and his will to serve. 
But oh, Thou Sovereign Giver of all good, 
Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown; 
Give what Thou canst, without Tlice we are poor. 
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away. 



tx^i/^ L/crvi 5 tn^Mj^^ ^{rv--^^ 



October came at length, and with it Charles's thoughts were turned 
again to Oxford. One or two weeks passed by; then a few days; and 
it was time to be packing. His father parted with him with even 
greater emotion than when he first went to school. He would himself 
drive him in the phaeton to the neighbouring town, from which the 
omnibus ran to the railroad, though he had the gout flying about 
him; and when the moment for parting came, he could not get 
himself to give up his hand, as if he had something to say which 
he could not recollect or master. "Well, Christmas will soon come," 
he said; "we must part; it's no use delaying it. Write to us soon, dear 
boy; and tell us all about yourself and your matters. Tell us about 
your friends; they are nice young men apparently: but I have great 
confidence in your prudence; you have more prudence than some of 
them. Your tutor seems a valuable man, from what you tell me," 
he went on, — repeating what had passed between him and Charles 
many times before; "a sound, well-judging man, that Mr. Vincent. 
Sheffield is too clever; he is young: you have an older head. It's no 
good my going on; I have said all this before; and you may be late 
for the rail. Well, God bless you, my dearest Charlie, and make you 
a blessing. May you be happier and better than your father ! I have 
ever been blest all my life long — wonderfully blest. Blessings have 
been poured on me from my youth, far above my deserts; may 
they be doubled upon you! Good-bye, my beloved Charles, good- 

Charles had to pass a day or two at the house of a relative who lived 
a little way out of London. While he was there, a letter arrived for 
him, forwarded from home; it was from Willis, dated from London, 
and announced that he had come to a very important decision, and 
should not return to Oxford. Charles was fairly in the world again, 
plunged into the whirl of opinions! how sad a contrast to his tranquil 
home ! There was no mistaking what the letter meant; and he set out 
at once with the chance of finding the writer at the house from which 
he dated it. It was a lodging at the west-end of the town; and he 
reached it about noon. 

He found Willis in company with a person apparently two or three 
years older. Willis started on seeing him. "Who would have 



'A ^ 


thought! what brings you here?" he said; "I thought you were in the 
country." Then to his companion, "Tliis is the friend I was speaking 
to you about, Morley. A happy meeting; sit down, dear Reding; 
I have much to tell you." Charles sat down all suspense, looking at 
Wilhs with such keen anxiety, that the latter was forced to cut the 
matter short. "Reding, I am a Catholic." Charles threw himself 
back in liis chair, and turned pale. "My dear Reding, what's the 
matter with you? why don't you speak to me?" Charles was still 
silent; at last, stooping forward, with his elbows on his knees, and his 
head on his hands, he said in a low voice, "O Willis, what have you 
done!" "Done?" said Willis; "what you should do, and half Oxford 
besides. O Reding, I'm so happy!" "Alas, alas!" said Charles; "but 
what is the good of my staying? — all good attend you, Willis; good- 
bye." "No, my good Reding, you don't leave me so soon, having 
found me so unexpectedly; and you have had a long walk, I dare 
say; sit down, there's a good fellow; we shall have luncheon soon, and 
you must not go without taking your part in it." He took Charles's 
hat from liim, as he spoke; and Charles, in a mixture of feehngs, 
let him have his way. "O Willis, so you have separated yourself 
from us for ever!" he said; "you have taken your course, we keep 
ours; our paths are different." "I^t so," said Willis; "you must 
follow me, and we shall be one still." Charles was half offended; 
"Really I must go," he said, and he rose; "you must not talk in that 
manner." "Pray, forgive me," answered Willis; "I won't do so 
again; but I could not help it; I am not in a common state, I'm so 

A thought struck Reding. "Tell mc, Willis," he said, "your 
exact position; in what sense are you a Catholic? What is to 
prevent your returning with me to Oxford?" His companion 
interposed: "I am taking a liberty perhaps," he said; "but Mr, WiUis 
has been regularly received into the Cathohc Church." "I have not 
introduced you," said Willis. "Reding, let me introduce Mr. 
Morley; Morley, Mr. Reding. Yes, Reding, I owe it to him that 
I am a Catholic. I have been on a tour with him abroad. We met 
with a good priest in France, who consented to receive my abjura- 
tion." "Well, I tliink he might profitably have examined into your 
state of mind a little before he did so," said Reding; "yow are not the 
person to become a Catholic, Willis." "What do you mean?" 
"Because," answered Reding, "you are more of a dissenter than a 



Catholic. I beg your pardon," he added, seeing Wilhs look up 
sharply, "let me be frank with you, pray do. You were attached to 
the Church of Rome, not as a child to a mother, but in a v/ay ward 
roving way, as a matter of fancy or liking, or (excuse me) as a greedy 
boy to some object of taste; and you pursued your object by dis- 
obeying the authorities set over you." It was as much as Willis 
could bear; he said, he thought he recollected a text about "obeying 
God rather than men." "I see you have disobeyed men," retorted 
Charles; "I trust you have been obeying God," Willis thought him 
rude, and would not speak. 

Mr. Morley began: "If you knew the circumstances better," he 
said, "you would doubtless judge differently. I consider Mr. Willis 
to be just the very person on whom it was incumbent to join the 
Church, and who will make an excellent Catholic. You must blame, 
not the venerable priest who received him, but me. The good man 
saw his devotion, his tears, his humility, his earnest desire; but the 
state of his mind he learned through mc, who speak French better 
than Mr. Willis. However, he had quite enough conversation with 
him in French and Latin. He could not reject a postulant for salvation; 
it was impossible. Had you been he, you would have done the 
same." "Well, sir, perhaps I have been unjust to him and you," said 
Charles; "however, I cannot augur well of this." "You are judging, 
sir," answered Mr, Morley, "let me say it, of things you do not know. 
You do not know what the Catholic religion is; you do not know 
what its grace is, or the gift of faith." The speaker was a layman; he 
spoke with earnestness the more intense, because quiet. Charles felt 
himself reproved by his mamier; his good taste suggested to him 
that he had been too vehement in the presence of a stranger; yet he 
did not feel the less confidence in his cause. He paused before he 
answered; then he said briefly, that he was aware that he did not 
know the Roman Catholic religion, but he knew Mr. Willis. He 
could not help giving his opinion that good would not come of it. 
"/have ever been a Catholic," said Mr. Morley; "so far I cannot judge 
of members of the Church of England; but this I know, that the 
Catholic Church is the only true Churcli. I may be wrong in many 
things; I cannot be wrong in this. This too I know, that the C.itholic 
faith is one, and that no odicr Church has fiith. The Church of 
England has no faith. You, my dear sir, have not faith," 

This was a home-thrust; the controversies of Oxford passed before 



Reding's mind; but he instantly recovered himself. "You cannot 
expect," said he, smiling, "that I, almost a boy, should be able to 
argue with yourself, or to defend my Church or to explain her faith. 
I am content to hold that faith, to hold what she holds, without 
professing to be. a divine. This is the doctrine which I have been 
4:aught at Oxford. I am under teaching there, I am not yet taught. 
Excuse me, then, iFI decline an argument with you. With Mr. 
JWilhs it is natural that I should argue; we are equals, and understand 
each other; but I am no theologian." Here Willis cried out, "O 
my dear Reding, what I say is, 'Come and see.' Don't stand at the 
door arguing: but enter the great home of the soul, enter and adore." 
"But," said Reding, "surely God wills us to be^uided by reason;- 
I don't mean that reason is everything, but it is at least something. 
Surely we ought not to act without it, against it." "But is not doubt 
a dreadful state?" said Willis, "a most perilous state? No state is 
safe but that of faith. Can it be safe to be without faith? Now have 
you faith in your Church? I know you well enough to know you 
have not; where then are you?" "Willis, you have misunderstood me 
most extraordinarily," said Charles: "ten thousand thoughts pass 
through the mind, and if it is safe to note down and bring against 
a man his stray words, I suppose there's nothing he mayn't be accused 
of holding. You must be alluding to some half sentence or other of 
mine, which I have forgotten, and which was no real sample of my 
sentiments. Do you mean I have no worship? and does not worship 
presuppose faith? I have much to learn, I am conscious; but I wish to 
learn it from the Church under whose shadow my lot is cast, and 
with whom I am content." "He confesses," said Wilhs, "that he has 
no faith; he confesses that he is in doubt. My dear Reding, can you 
sincerely plead that you are in invincible ignorance after what has 
passed between us? Now suppose for an instant that Catholicism is 
true, is it not certain that you now have an opportunity of embracing 
it? and if you do not, are you in a state to die in?" 

Reding was perplexed how to answer; that is, he could not with 
the necessary quickness analyse and put into words the answer which 
his reason suggested to Willis's rapid interrogatories, Mr. Morley 
had kept silence, lest Charles should have two upon him at once; but 
when Willis paused, and Charles did not reply, he interposed. He 
said that all the calls in Scripture were obeyed witli promptitude by 
those who were called; and that our Lord would not suffer one man 



even to go and bury his father. Reding answered, that in those cases 
the voice of Christ was actually heard; He was on earth, in bodily 
presence; now, however, the very question was, which was the voice 
of Christ? and whether the Church of Rome did or did not speak 
with the voice of Christ? That surely we ought to act prudently; 
that Christ could not wish us to act otherwise; that for himself, he 
had no doubt that he was in the place where Providence wished him 
to be; but, even if he had any doubts whether Christ was calling him 
elsewhere, (which he had not,) but if he had, he should certainly 
think that Christ called him in the way and method of careful 
examination, — that prudence was the divinely appointed means of 
coming at the truth. "Prudence!" cried Wilhs, "such prudence as St. 
Thomas's, I suppose, when he determined to see before believing." 
Charles hesitated to answer. "I see it," continued Willis; and starting 
up, he seized his arm; "come, my dear fellow, come with me directly; 
let us go to the good priest who lives two streets off. You shall be 
received this very day. On with your hat." And before Charles 
could shew any resistance, he was half out of the room. He could not 
help laughing, in spite of his vexation; he disengaged his arm, and 
deliberately sat down. "Not so fast," he said; "we are not quite this 
sort of person." Willis looked awkward for a moment; then he said, 
"Well, at least you must go into a retreat; you must go forthwith. 
Morley, do you know when Mr. De Mowbray or Father Agostino 
gives his next retreat? Reding, it is just what you want, just what all 
Oxford men want; I think you will not refuse me." Charles looked 
up in his face, and smiled. "It is not my line," he said at length, "I 
am on my way to Oxford. I must go. I came here to be of use to 
you; I can be of none, so I must go. Would I could be of service; 
but it is hopeless. Oh, it makes my heart ache." And he went on 
brushing his hat with liis glove, as if on the point of rising, yet loath 
to rise. 

Morley now struck in: he spoke all along like a gentleman, and a 
man of real piety, but with a great ignorance of Protestants, or how 
they were to be treated. "Excuse me, Mr. Reding," he said, "if before 
you go, I say one word. I feel very much for the struggle which is 
going on in your mind; and I am sure it is not for such as mc to speak 
harshly or unkindly to you. The struggle between conviction and 
motives of this world is often long; may it have a happ)- termination 
in your case! Do not be offended if I suggest to you that the dearest 



and closest ties, such as your connexion with the Protestant Church 
involves, may be on the side of the world in certain cases. It is a sort 
of martyrdom to have to break such; but they who do so have a 
martyr's reward. And then at a University you have so many 
inducements to fall in with the prevailing tone of thought; prospects, 
success in life, good opinion of friends — all these things are against 
you. They are likely to choke the good seed. Well, I could have 
wished that you had been able to follow the dictates of conscience at 
once; but the conflict must continue its appointed time; we will hope 
that all will end well." 

"I can't persuade these good people," thought Charles, as he closed 
the street-door after him, "that I am not in a state of conviction, and 
struggling against it; how absurd! Here I come to reclaim a deserter, 
and I am seized even bodily, and against my will all but hurried into 
a profession of faith. Do these things happen to people every day? or 
is there some particular fate with me, thus to be brought across 
religious controversies which I am not up to? I a Roman Cathohc! 
what a contrast all this with quiet Hartley!" naming his home. As he 
continued to think on what had passed, he was still less satisfied with 
it or with himself He had gone to lecture, and he had been lectured; 
and he had let out his secret state of mind; no, not let out, he had 
nothing to let out. He had indeed imphed that he was inquiring after 
religious truth, but every Protestant inquires; he would not be a 
Protestant if he did not. Of course he was seeking the truth; it v/as 
his duty to do so; he recollected distinctly his tutor laying dowoi on 
one occasion the duty of private judgment. Tliis was the very 
difference between Protestants and Cathohcs; Catholics begin with 
faith, Protestants with inquiry; and he ought to have said this to 
Willis. He was provoked he had not said it; it would have simplified 
the question, and shewn how far he was from being unsettled. Un- 
settled! it was most extravagant! He wished this had but struck him 
during the conversation, but it was a relief that it struck him now; 
it reconciled him to his position. 




The first day of Michaelmas term is, to an undergraduate's furniture, 
the brightest day of the year. Much as Charles regretted home, he 
rejoiced to see old Oxford again. The porter had acknowledged him 
at the gate, and his scout had smiled and bowed, as he ran up the 
worn staircase and found a blazing fire to welcome him. The coals 
crackled and split, and threw up a white flame in strong contrast with 
the newly blackened bars and hobs of the grate. A shining copper 
kettle hissed and groaned under the internal torment of water at 
boiling point. The chimney-glass had been cleaned, the carpet 
beaten, the curtains fresh glazed. A tea-tray and tea commons were 
placed on the table; besides a battel paper, two or three cards from 
tradesmen who desired his patronage, and a note from a friend whose 
term had already commenced. The porter came in with his luggage, 
and had just received his too ample remuneration, when, through the 
closing door, in rushed Sheffield in his travelling dress. 

"Well, old fellow, how are you?" he said, shaking both of Charles's 
hands or rather arms with all his might; "here we are all again; I am 
just come, like you. Where have you been all this time? Come, tell 
us all about yourself. Give me some tea, and let's have a good jolly 
chat." Charles liked Sheffield, he liked Oxford, he was pleased to get 
back; yet he had some remains of home-sickness on him, and was not 
quite in cue for Sheffield's good-natured boisterousness. Willis's 
matter, too, was still on his mind. "Have you heard the news?" said 
Sheffield; "I have been long enough in College to pick it up. The 
kitchen man was full of it as I passed along. Jack's a particular friend 
of mine, a good honest fellow, and has all the gossip of the place. I 
don't know what it means, but Oxford has just now a ver)^ bad 
inside. The report is, that some of the men have turned Romans; imd 
they say that there are strangers going about Oxford whom no one 
knows any thing of. Jack, who is a bit of a divine himself, says he 
heard the Principal say that, for certain, there were Jesuits at the 
bottom of it; and, I don't know what he means, but he declares he 
saw with his own eyes the Pope walking down High Street with the 
priest. I asked him how he knew it? and he said he knew the Pope by 
his slouching hat and his long beard; and the porter told him it was 
the Pope. The Dons have met several times; and several tutors are to 

N~M 177 


be discommoned, and their names stuck up against the buttery door. 
Meanwhile the Marshal, with two bull-dogs, is keeping guard before 
the Catholic Chapel; and, to complete it, that old drunken fellow 
Topham is reported, out of malice, when called in to cut the Warden 
of St. Mary's hair, to have made a clean white tonsure a-top of him." 

"My dear Sheffield, how you run on!" said Reding. "Well, do 
you know, I can tell you a piece of real news bearing on these reports, 
and not of the pleasantest. Did you know Wilhs, of St. George's?" 
"I think I once saw him at wine in your rooms; a modest, nice- 
looking fellow, who never spoke a word." "Ah, I assure you, he 
has a tongue in his head, w^hen it suits him," answered Charles; "yet 
I do think," he added musingly, "he's very much changed, and not 
for the better." "Well, what's the upshot?" asked Sheffield. "He 
has turned Catholic," said Charles. "What a fool!" cried Sheffield. 
There was a pause. Charles felt awkward; then he said: "I can't say 
I was surprised; and yet I should have been less surprised at Wliite." 
"Oh, White won't turn Catholic," said Sheffield; "he hasn't it in him. 
He's a coward." "Fools and cowards!" answered Charles: "thus you 
divide the world, Sheffield? Poor Willis!" he added; "one must 
respect a man who acts according to his conscience." "What can he 
know of conscience?" said Sheffield; "the idea of his swallowing, of 
his own free will, the heap of rubbish which every Catholic has to 
beheve! in cold blood, tying a collar round his neck, and politely 
putting the chain into the hands of a priest ! . . . And then the Con- 
fessional! 'Tis marvellous!" and he began to break the coals with the 
poker. "It's very well," he continued, "if a man is born a Catholic; 
I don't suppose they really believe what they are obliged to profess; 
but how an Englishman, a gentleman, a man here at Oxford, with 
all his advantages, can so eat dirt, scraping and picking up all the dead 
lies of the dark ages — it's a miracle." 

"Well, if there is any thing that recommends Romanism to me," 
said Charles, "it is what you so much dislike: I'd give twopence, if 
some one, whom I could trust, would say to me: 'This is true; this 
is not true.' We should be saved this eternal wrangling. Wouldn't 
you be glad if St. Paul could come to hfe? I've often said to myself: 
'Oh, that I could ask St. Paul this or that!' " "But the Catholic 
Church isn't St. Paul quite, I guess," said Sheffield. "Certainly not; 
but supposing you did think it had the inspiration of an Apostle, as the 
Roman Catholics do, what a comfort it would be to know, beyond 


l,^i^ ^ rL ^i^^- 


all doubt, what to believe about God, and how to worship and please 
him! I mean: you said, 'I can't believe this or that;' now you ought 
to have said, 'I can't believe the Pope has power to decide this or that.' 
If he had, you ought to beheve it, whatever it is, and not to say, 'I 
can't believe.' " Sheffield looked hard at him: "We shall have you 
a papist some of these fine days," said he. "Nonsense^" answered 
Charles; "you shouldn't say such things, even in jest." "I don't jest; 
I am in earnest: you are plainly on the road." "Well, if I am, you 
have put me on it," said Reding, wishing to get away from the 
subject as quick as he could; "for you are ever talking against shams, 
and laughing at King Charles and Laud, Batcman, White, roodlofts, 
and piscinas." 

"Now you are a Puseyite," said Sheffield, in surprise. "You give 
me the name of a very good man, whom I hardly know by sight," 
said Reding; "but I mean, that nobody knows what to believe, no 
one has a definite faith, but the Catholics and the Puseyitcs; no one 
says, 'This is true, that is false;' 'this comes from the Apostles, that 
does not.' " "Then would you believe a Turk," asked Sheffield, 
"who came to you with his 'One Allah, and Mahomet his Prophet?' " 
"I did not say a creed was every thing," answered Reding, "or that 
a religion could not be false which had a creed; but a religion can't 
be true which has none." "Well, somehow that doesn't strike me," 
said Sheffield. "Now there was Vincent at the end of term, after 
you had gone down," continued Charles; "you know I stayed up for 
Little-go; and he was very civil, very civil indeed. I had a talk with 
him about Oxford parties, and he pleased me very much at the time; 
but afterwards, the more I thought of what he said, the less was I 
satisfied; that is, I had got nothing definite from him. He did not say, 
'This is true, that is false;' but, 'Be true, be true, be good, be good, 
don't go too far, keep in the mean, have your eyes about you, eschew 
parties, follow our divines, all of them;' — all of which was but putting 
salt on the bird's tail. I want some practical direction, not abstract 
truths." "Vincent is a humbug," said Sheffield of his tutor. "Dr. 
Pusey, on the other hand," said Charles," is said always to be decisive. 
He says, 'This is Apostolic, that's in the Fathers; St. Cyprian sa)s this, 
St. Augustin denies that; this is safe, that's wrong; I bid you, I forbid 
you.' I understand all this; but I don't understand having duties put 
on me which are too much for me. I don't understand, 1 dislike, 
having a will of my own, when I have not the means to form it justly. 



In such a case, to tell me to act of myself, is like Pharaoh setting the 
Israelites to make bricks without straw. Setting me to inquire, to 
judge, to decide, forsooth! it's absurd; who has taught me?" 

"But the Puseyites are not always so distinct," said Sheffield; 
"there's Smith, he never speaks decidedly in difficult questions. I 
know a man who was going to remain in Italy for some years, at a 
distance from any English chapel, — he could not help it, — and who 
came to ask hun if he might communicate in the Catholic churches; 
he could not get an answer from him; he would not say yes or no. 
"Then he won't have many followers, that's all," said Charles; "But 
he has more than Dr. Pusey," answered Sheffield. "Well, I can't 
understand it," said Charles; "he ought not; perhaps they won't 
stay." "The truth is," said Sheffield, "I suspect he is more of a sceptic 
at bottom." "Well, I honour the man who builds up," said Reding, 
"and I despise the man who breaks down." "I am inclined to think 
you have a wrong notion of building up and pulling down," an- 
swered Sheffield; "Coventry, in his Dissertations makes it quite clear 
that Christianity is not a religion of doctrines." "Who is Coventry?" 
"Not know Coventry? he's one of the most original writers of the 
day: he's an American, and I believe, a congregationalist. Oh, I 
assure you, you should read Coventry, in spite of his being wrong 
on the question of Church-government; you are not well au courant 
with the literature of the day unless you do. He is no party man; he 
is a correspondent of the first men of the day; he stopped with the 
Dean of Oxford when he was in England, who has published an 
English edition of liis "Dissertations," with a Preface; and he and 
Lord Newlights were said to be the two most witty men at the 
meeting of the British Association, two years ago," "I don't like 
Lord Newlights," said Charles; "he seems to me to have no principle; 
that is, no fixed, definite religious principle. You don't know where 
to fmd him, Tliis is what my father thinks; I have often heard him 
speak of him." 

"It's curious you should use the word principle'' said Sheffield; 
"for it is that which Coventry lays such stress on. He says that 
Christianity has no creed; that tliis is the very point in which it is 
distinguished from other religions; that you will search the New 
Testament in vain for a creed; but that Scripture is full o£ principles. 
The view is very ingenious, and seemed to me true, when I read the 
book. According to him, then, Christianity is not a religion of doc- 



trines or mysteries; and if you are looking for dogmatism in Scrip- 
ture, it's a mistake." Charles was puzzled. "Certainly," he said, "at 
first sight there is no creed in Scripture, — No creed in Scripture," he 
said slowly, as if thinking aloud; "no creed in Scripture, therefore 
there is no creed. But the Athanasian Creed," he added quickly, 
"is that in Scripture? It either is in Scripture, or it is not. Let me see, 
it either is there, or it is not. What was it that Freeborn said last 
term? . . . Tell me, Sheffield, would the Dean of Oxford say that 
the creed was in Scripture or not? perhaps you do not fairly explain 
Coventry's view; what is your impression?" "Why, I will tell you 
frankly, my impression is, judging from his Preface, that he would not 
scruple to say that it is not in Scripture, but a scholastic addition." 
"My dear fellow," said Charles, "do you mean that he, a dignitary 
of the Church, would say that the Athanasian Creed was a mistake, 
because it represented Christianity as a revelation of doctrines or 
mysteries to be received on faith?" "Well, I may be wrong," said 
Sheffield, "but so I understood him." "After all," said Charles, sadly, 
"it's not so much more than that other Dean, I forget his name, said 
at St. Mary's before the Vacation; it's part of the same system. Oh, 
it was after you went down, or just at the end of term: you don't go 
to sermons; I'm inchned not to go either. I can't enter upon the 
Dean's argument; it's not worth while. Well," he added, standing 
up and stretching himself, "I am tired with the day, yet it has not been 
a fatiguing one either; but London is so bustling a place." "You wish 
me to say good night," said Sheffield. Charles did not deny the 
charge; and the friends parted. 


There could not have been a lecture more unfavourable for Charles's 
peace of mind than that in which he found himself this term placed; 
yet, so blind are we to the future,Jie hailed it with great satisfiction, 
as if it was to bring him an answer to the perplexities into which 
SEeffield, Bateman, Freeborn, White, Willis, Mr. Morley, Dr. 
Brownside, Mr. Vincent, and the general state of Oxford, had all, in 
one way or other, conspired to throw him. He had shewn such 
abilities in the former part of the year, and was reading so diligcntlv, 



that his tutors put him prematurely into the lecture upon the Articles. 
It was a capital lecture so far as this, that the tutor who gave it had 
got up his subject completely. He knew the whole history of the 
Articles, how they grew into their present shape, with what fortunes, 
what had been added, and when, and what omitted. With this, of 
course, was joined an explanation of the text, as deduced, as far as 
could be, from the historical account thus given. Not only the 
British, but the foreign Reformers were introduced; and nothing 
was wanting, at least in the intention of the lecturer, for fortifying 
the young inquirer in the doctrine and discipline of the Church of 

It did not produce this effect on Reding. Whether he had expected 
too much, or whatever was the cause, so it was that he did but feel 
more vividly the sentiment of the old father in the comedy, after 
consulting the lawyers, ''Incertior sum multo quam ante" He saw that 
the profession of faith contained in the Articles was but a patchwork 
of bits of orthodoxy, Lutheranism, Calvinism, and Zuinglism; and 
tliis too on no principle; that it was the work of accident, if there 
be such a thing as accident, that it had come down in the particular 
shape in which the English Church now receives it, when it might 
have come down in any other shape; that it was but a toss-up that 
Anghcans at this day were not Calvinists, or Presbyterians, or 
Lutherans, equally well as EpiscopaHans. This historical fact did but 
clench the difficulty, or rather impossibility, of saying what the faith 
of the English Church was. On almost every point of dispute the 
authoritative standard of doctrine was vague or inconsistent, and 
there was an imposing weight of external testimony in favour of 
opposite interpretations. He stopped after lecture once or twice, and 
asked information of Mr. Upton the tutor, who was quite ready to 
give it; but nothing came of these applications as regards the object 
which led him to make them. 

One difficulty which Charles experienced was, to know whether, 
according to the Articles, divine truth was directly (^liven us, or 
whether we had to seek it for ourselves from Scripture. Several 
Articles led to this question; and Mr. Upton, who was a High 
Cliurchman, answered him, that the saving doctrine neither wsls given 
nor was to be sought, but that it was proposed by the Church, and 
proved by the individual. Charles did not see this distinction 
between seeking and proving; for how can we prove except by seeking 



(in Scripture) for reasons? He put the question in another form, and 
asked if the Christian Rehgion allowed of private judgment? This 
was no abstruse question, and a very practical one. Had he asked a 
Wesleyan or Independent, he would have had an unconditional 
answer in the affirmative; had he asked a Catholic, he would have 
been told that we used our private judgment to fmd the Church, and 
then the Church superseded it; but from this Oxford divine he could 
not get a distinct answer. First, he was told that doubtless we tnust 
use our judgment in the determination of religious doctrine; but next 
he was told that it was sin (as it undoubtedly is) to doubt the doctrine 
of the Blessed Trinity. Yet, while he was told that to doubt of that 
doctrine was a sin, he was told in another conversation that our 
highest state here is one of doubt. What did this mean? Surely 
certainty was simply necessary on some points, as on the Object of 
worship; how could we worship what we doubted of? The two acts 
were contrasted by the Evangelist; when the disciples saw our Lord 
after the resurrection, "they worshipped Him, but some doubted;" 
yet, in spite of this, he was told that there was "impatience" in the 
very idea of desiring certainty. 

At another time he asked whether the anathemas of the Athanasian 
Creed applied to all its clauses; for instance, whether it is necessary to 
salvation to hold that there is "urius cetemusj' as the Latin has it; or 
"such as the Father, . . . such the Holy Ghost;" or that the Holy 
Ghost is "by Himself God and Lord;" or that Christ is one "by the 
taking of the manhood into God?" He could get no answer. Mr. 
Upton said, that he did not like extreme questions; that he could not 
and did not wish to answer them; that the Creed was written against 
heresies, which now no longer existed, as a sort o{ protest. Reding 
asked whether tliis meant that the Creed did not contain a distinctive 
view of its own, which alone was safe, but was merely a negation of 
error. The clauses, he observed, were positive, not negative. He 
could get no answer further than that the Creed taught that the doc- 
trines of "the Trinity" and "the Incarnation" were "necessary to 
salvation," it being apparently left uncertain ii'hat those doctrines 
consisted in. 

One day he asked how grievous sins were to be forgiven, which 
were committed after baptism, whether by fiith, or not at all in this 
life? He was answered that the Articles said nothing on the sub- 
ject; that the Romish doctrine of pardons and purgatory was filse; 



and that it was well to avoid both curious questions and subtle 

Another question turned up at another lecture, viz. whether the 
Real Presence meant a Presence of Christ in the elements, or in the 
soul, i.e. in the faith of the recipient; that is, whether the Presence 
was really such, or a mere name. Mr. Upton pronounced it an open 
question. Another day Charles asked whether Christ was present in 
fact, or only in effect. Mr. Upton answered decidedly "in effect," 
wliich seemed to Reding to mean no real presence at all. 

He had had some difficulty in receiving the doctrine of eternal 
punishment; it had seemed to liim the hardest doctrine of revelation. 
Then he said to himself, "But what is faith in its very notion but an 
acceptance of the word of God, when reason seems to oppose it? 
How is it faith at all, if there is notliing to try it?" Tliis thought fully 
satisfied him. The only question was, 75 it part of the revealed word? 
"I can believe it," he said, "if I know for certain that I ought to beUeve 
it; but if I am not bound to believe it, I can't believe it." Accordingly 
he put the question to Mr. Upton, whether the eternal punishment of 
the wicked, in the ordinary sense of the words, was a necessary doc- 
trine of revelation, and whether it was included under the anathema 
of the Athanasian Creed; again, whether it was a doctrine of the 
Church of England; that is, whether it came under the subscription 
to the Articles. He could obtain no answer. Yet if he did //of believe 
this doctrine, he felt the whole fabric of liis faith shake under him. 
Close upon it came the doctrine of the Atonement. 

It is difficult to give instances of this kind, without producing the 
impression on the reader's mind that Charles w^as forward and 
captious in his inquiries. Certainly Mr. Upton had his own thoughts 
about him, but he never thought his manner inconsistent with 
modesty and respect towards himself. 

Charles naturally was full of the subject, and would have disclosed 
his perplexities to Sheffield, had he not had a strong anticipation that 
this would have been making matters worse. He thought Bateman, 
however, might be of some service, and he disburdened himself to 
him in the course of a country walk. What was he to do? for on his 
entrance he had been told, that when he took his degree he should 
have to sign the Articles, not on faith as then, but on reason; yet they 
were unintelligible; and how could he prove what he could not 



Batcman seemed unwilling to talk on the subject; at last he said, 
"Oh, my dear Reding, you really are in an excited state of mind; 
I don't like to talk to you just now, for you will not see things in 
a straightforward way, and take them naturally. What a bugbear 
you are conjuring up! You are in an Article-lecture in your second 
year; and hardly have you commenced, but you begin to fancy what 
you will or will not think at the end of your time. Don't ask about 
the Articles now; wait at least till you have seen the lecture through." 
"It really is not my way to be fussed or to fidget," said Charles; 
"though I own I am not so quiet as I ought to be. I hear so many 
different opinions in conversation; then I go to church, and one 
preacher deals his blows at another; lastly, I betake myself to the 
Articles, and really I cannot make out what they would teach me. 
For instance, I cannot make out their doctrine about faith, about the 
sacraments, about predestination, about the Church, about the in- 
spiration of Scripture. And their tone is so unlike the Prayer-book. 
Upton has brought this out in his lectures most clearly." "Now, my 
most respectable friend," said Bateman, "do think for a moment what 
men have signed the Articles. Perhaps King Charles himself; certainly 
Laud, and all the great Bishops of his day, and of the next generation. 
Think of the most orthodox Bull, the singularly learned Pearson, 
the eloquent Taylor, Montague, Barrow, Thorndike, good dear 
Bishop Home, and Jones of Nayland. Can't you do what they did?" 
"The argument is a very strong one," said Charles; "I have felt it: 
you mean, then, I must sign on faith." "Yes, certainly, if necessary," 
said Bateman. "And how am I to sign as a Master, and when 1 
am ordained?" asked Charles. "That's what I mean by fidgeting," 
answered Bateman. "You are not content with your day; you are 
reaching forward to five years hence." Charles laughed. "It isn't 
quite that," he said, "I was but testing your advice; however, there's 
some truth in it." And he changed the subject. 

They talked a while of indifferent matters; but on a pause Charles's 
thoughts fell back again to the Articles. "Tell me, Bateman," he said, 
"as a mere matter of curiosity, how yon subscribed when you took 
your degree." "Oh, I had no diificulty at all," said Batcman; "the 
examples of Bull and Pearson arc enough for me." "Then you signed 
on faith." "Not exactly, but it was that thought which smoothed all 
difficulties." "Could you have signed without it?" "How can you 
ask me the question? Of course." "Well, do tell me, tlien, what was 



your ground'?" *'Oh, I had many grounds. I can't recollect in a 
moment what happened some time ago." "Oh, it was a matter of 
difficulty; indeed, you said so just now." "Not at all; my only 
difficulty was, not about myself, but how to state the matter to other 
people." "What, some one suspected you?" "No, no; you are quite 
mistaken. I mean, for instance, the Article says that we are justified 
by faith only; now the Protestant sense of this statement is point 
blank opposite to our standard divines; the question was, what I was 
to say when asked my sense of it." "I understand," said Charles; 
"now tell me how you solved the problem." "Well, I don't deny 
that the Protestant sense is heretical," answered Bateman; "and so is 
the Protestant sense of many other things in the Articles; but then 
we need not take them in the Protestant sense." "Then in what 
sense?" "Why, first," said Bateman, "we need not take them in any 
sense at all. Don't smile; listen. Great authorities, such as Laud or 
Bramhall, seem to have considered that we only sign the Articles 
as articles of peace; not as really holding them, but as not opposing 
them. Therefore, when we sign the Articles, we only engage not to 
preach against them." Reding thought; then he said: "Tell me, 
Bateman, would not this view of subscription to the Articles let the 
Unitarians into the Church?" Bateman allowed it would, but the 
Liturgy would still keep them out. Charles then went on to suggest 
that they would take the Liturgy as a Liturgy of peace too. Bateman 
began again. 

"If you want some tangible principle," he said, "for interpreting 
Articles and Liturgy, I can give you one. You know," he continued, 
after a short pause, "what it is we hold? Why, we give the Articles 
a Catholic interpretation." Charles looked inquisitive. "It is plain," 
continued Bateman, "that no document can be a dead letter; it must 
be the expression of some mind; and the question here is, whose is 
what may be called the voice which speaks the Articles. Now, if the 
Bishops, Heads of houses, and other dignitaries and authorities, were 
unanimous in their religious views, and one and all said that the 
Articles meant this and not that, they, as the imponents, would have 
a right to interpret them; and the Articles would mean what they said 
they meant. But they do not agree together; some of them are 
diametrically opposed to others. One clergyman denies Apostolical 
Succession, another affirms it; one denies the Lutheran justification, 
another maintains it; one denies the inspiration of Scripture, a second 

1 86 


holds Calvin to be a saint, a third considers the doctrine of sacramental 
grace a superstition, a fourth takes part with Nestorius against the 
Church, a fifth is a Sabellian. It is plain, then, that the Articles have 
no sense at all, if the collective voice of Bishops, Deans, Professors, 
and the like is to be taken. They cannot supply what schoolmen call 
the form of the Articles. But perhaps the writers themselves of the 
Articles will supply it? No; for, first, we don't know for certain who 
the writers were; and next, the Articles have gone through so many 
hands, and so many mendings, that some at least of the original 
authors would not like to be responsible for them. Well, let us go to 
the Convocations which ratified them: but they, too, were of different 
sentiments; the seventeenth century did not hold the doctrine of the 
sixteenth. Such is the state of the case. On the other hand, we say 
that, if the Anglican Church be a part of the one Church Cathohc, 
it must, from the necessity of the case, hold Catholic doctrine. 
Therefore, the whole Catholic Creed, the acknowledged doctrine of 
the Fathers, of St. Ignatius, St. Cyprian, St. Augustin, St. Ambrose, 
is the form, is the one true sense and interpretation of the Articles. 
They may be ambiguous in themselves; they may have been worded 
with various intentions by the individuals concerned in their com- 
position: but these are accidents; the Church knows nothing of 
individuals; she interprets herself." 

Reding took some time to tliink over this: "All this," he said, 
"proceeds on the fundamental principle that the Church of England 
is an integral part of that visible body, of which St. Ignatius, St. 
Cyprian, and the rest were Bishops; according to the words of 
Scripture, 'one body, one faith.' " Bateman assented; Charles pro- 
ceeded: "Then the Articles must not be considered primarily as 
teaching; they have no one sense in themselves; they are confessedly 
ambiguous; they are compiled from heterogeneous sources; but all 
this does not matter, for all must be interpreted by the teaching of the 
Catholic Church." Bateman agreed in the main, except that he had 
stated the case rather too strongly. "But what if their letter contradicts 
a doctrine of the Fathers? am I to force the letter?" "If such a case 
actually happened, the theory would not hold," answered Bateman; 
"it would only be a gross quibble. You can in no case sign an Article 
in a sense which its words will not bear. But fortunately, or ratlier 
providentially, this is not the case; we have merely to explain ambigui- 
ties, and harmonise discrepancies. The Catholic interpretation docs 



no greater violence to the text than any other rule of interpretation 
will be found to do." "Well, but I know nothing of the Fathers," 
said Cliarles; "others are in the same condition; how am I to learn 
practically to interpret the Articles?" "By the Prayer-book; the 
Prayer-book is the voice of the Fathers." "How so?" "Because 
the Prayer-book is confessedly ancient, while the Articles are 

Charles kept silence again: "It is very plausible," he said; he 
thought on. Presently he asked: "Is this a received view?" "No view 
is received," said Bateman; "the Articles themselves are received, but 
there is no authoritative interpretation of them at all. That's what I 
was saying just now; Bishops and Professors don't agree together." 
"Well," said Charles, "is it a tolerated view?" "It has certainly been 
strongly opposed," answered Bateman; "but it has never been con- 
deimied." "That is no answer," said Charles, who saw by Bateman's 
manner how the truth lay. "Does any one Bishop hold it? did any 
one Bishop ever hold it? has it ever been formally admitted as tenable 
by any one Bishop? is it a view got up to meet existing difficulties, or 
has it an historical existence?" Bateman could give but one answer 
to these questions, as they were successively put to him. "I thought 
so," said Charles, when he had made his answer: "I know, of course, 
whose view you are putting before me, though I never heard it drawn 
out before. It is specious, certainly; I don't see but it might have 
done, had it been tolerably sanctioned; but you have no sanction to 
shew me. It is, as it stands, a mere theory struck out by individuals. 
Our Church might have adopted this mode of interpreting the 
Articles; but from what you tell me, it certainly has not done so. I 
am where I was." 


The thought came across Reding, whether perhaps, after all, what is 
called Evangelical Religion was not the true Christianity: its pro- 
fessors, he knew, were active and influential, and in past times had 
been much persecuted. Freeborn had surprised and offended him at 
Bateman's breakfast-party before the Vacation; yet Freeborn had a 
serious manner about him, and perhaps he had misunderstood liim. 



The thought, however, passed away as suddenly as it came, and per- 
haps would not have occurred to him again, when an accident gave 
him some data for determining the question. 

One afternoon he was lounging in the Parks, gazing with surprise 
on one of those extraordinary lights for which the neighbourhood of 
Oxford is at that season celebrated, and which, as the sun went down, 
was colouring Marston, Elsfield, and their halt-denuded groves with 
a pale gold and brown hue, when he found himself overtaken and 
addressed by the said Freeborn in propria persona. Freeborn liked a 
tete-a-tete talk much better than a dispute in a party; he felt himself at 
more advantage in long leisurely speeches, and he was soon put out of 
breath when he had to bolt-out or edge-in his words amid the ever- 
varying voices of a breakfast-table. He thought the present might 
be a good opportunity of doing good to a poor youth, who did not 
know chalk from cheese, and who, by his means, might be, as he 
would word it, "savingly converted." So they got into conversation, 
talked of Willis's step, which Freeborn called awful; and, before 
Charles knew where he was, he found himself asking Freeborn what 
he meant by "faith." 

"Faith," said Freeborn, "is a divine gift, and is the instrument of 
our justification in God's sight. We are all by nature displeasing to 
Him, till He justifies us freely for Christ's sake. Faith is like a hand, 
appropriating personally the merits of Christ, or is our justification. 
Now, v/hat can we want more, or have more, than those merits? 
Faith, then, is every thing, and does every thing for us. You sec, then, 
how important it is to have a right view about justification by faith 
only. If we are sound on this capital point, every thing else ma)' take 
its chance; we shall at once see the folly of contending about cere- 
monies, about forms of Church-government, about, I will even sa)', 
sacraments or creeds. External things will, in that case, either be 
neglected, or will find a subordinate place." Redmt^ observed that 
of course Freeborn did not mean to say that good v/orks were not 
necessary for obtaining God's favour; "but if they were, how was 
justification by faith only?" Freeborn smiled, and said that he hoped 
Reding would have clearer views in a little time. It was a very simple 
matter. Faith not only justified, it regenerated also. It was the root of 
sanctification, as well as of Divine acceptance. The same act, which 
was the means of bringing us into God's fivour, secured our being 
meet for it. Thus good works were secured, because taidi would not 



be true faith imless it were such as to be certain of bringing forth 
good works in due time. 

Reding thought this view simple and clear, though it unpleasantly 
reminded him of Dr. Brownside. Freeborn added, that it was a 
doctrine suited to the poor, that it put all the gospel into a nutshell, 
that it dispensed with criticism, primitive ages, teachers, in short 
with authority in whatever form. It swept theology clean away. 
There was no need to mention tliis last consequence to Charles; but 
he passed it by, wishing to try the system on its own merits. "You 
speak of true faith," he said, "as producing good works; you say that 
no faith justifies but true faith, and true faith produces good works. 
In other words, I suppose, faith, which is certain to he fruitful, or 
fruitful faith, justifies. This is very much hke saying that faith and 
works are the joint means of justification." "Oh, no, no," cried 
Freeborn, "that is deplorable doctrine; it is quite opposed to the 
gospel, it is anti-christian. We are justified by faith only, apart from 
good v/orks." "I am in an Article lecture just now," said Charles, 
"and Upton told us that we must make a distinction o£ this kind: for 
instance, the Duke of Wellington is Chancellor of the University, 
but, though he is as much Chancellor as he is Duke, still he sits in the 
House of Lords as Duke, not as Chancellor. Thus, although faith is as 
truly fruitful as it is faith, yet it does not justify as being fruitful, but 
as being faith. Is this what you mean?" "Not at all," said Freeborn; 
"that was Melanchthon's doctrine; he explained away a cardinal truth 
into a mere matter of words; he made faith a mere symbol, but this 
is a departure from the pure gospel; faith is the instrutueut, not a 
symbol of justification. It is, in truth, a mere apprehension, and 
nothing else; the seizing and clinging which a beggar might venture 
on, when a king passed by. Faith is as poor as Job in the ashes; it is 
like Job stripped of all pride and pomp and good works; it is covered 
with filthy rags, it is without any thing good; it is, I repeat, a mere 
apprehension. Now you see what I mean." "I can't believe I under- 
stand you," said Charles; "you say, that to have faith is to seize 
Christ's merits, and that we have them, if we will but seize them. But 
surely not every one who seizes them, gains them; because dissolute 
men, who never have a dream of thorough repentance or real hatred 
of sin, would gladly seize and appropriate them, if they might 60 so. 
They would hke to get to heaven for nothing. Faith, then, must 
be some particular kind of apprehension; what kind? good works can- 



not be mistaken, but an 'apprehension' may. What, then, is a 
true apprehension? what is faith?" "What need, my dear friend," 
answered Freeborn, "of knowing metaphysically what true faith is, if 
we have it and enjoy it? I do not know what bread is, but I eat it; 
do I wait till a chemist analyses it? No, I eat it, and I feel the good 
effects afterwards. And so let us be content to know, not what faith 
is, but what it does, and enjoy our blessedness in possessing it." "I 
really don't want to introduce metaphysics," said Charles, "but I 
will adopt your own image. Suppose I suspected the bread put 
before me to have arsenic in it, or to be merely unwholesome, would 
it be wonderful if I tried to ascertain how the fact stood?" "Did you 
do so this morning at breakfast?" asked Freeborn. "I did not suspect 
my bread," answered Charles. "Then why suspect faith?" asked 
Freeborn. "Because it is, so to say, a new substance" — (Freeborn 
sighed) — "because I am not used to it, nay, because I suspect it. I 
must say suspect it; because, though I don't know much about the 
matter, I know perfectly well, from what has taken place in my 
father's parish, what excesses this doctrine may lead to, unless it is 
guarded. You say, that it is a doctrine for the poor; now they are 
very likely to mistake one thing for another; so indeed is every one. 
If, then, we are told, that we have but to apprehend Christ's merits, 
and need not trouble ourselves about any thing else; that justification 
has taken place, and works will follow; that all is done, and that 
salvation is complete, while we do but continue to have faith; I 
think we ought to be pretty sure that we have faith, real faith, a real 
apprehension, before we shut up our books and make holiday." 

Freeborn was secretly annoyed that he had got into an argument, 
or pained, as he would express it, at the pride of Charles's natural 
man, or the blindness of his carnal reason; but there was no help for 
it, he must give him an answer. "There are, I know, many kinds of 
faith," he said; "and of course you must be on your guard against 
mistaking false faith for true faith. Many persons, as you most truly 
say, make this mistake; and most important is it, all-important I 
should say, to go right. First, it is evident that it is not mere belief in 
facts, in the being of a God, or in the historical event that Christ 
has come and gone. Nor is it the submission of the reason to 
mysteries; nor, again, is it that sort of trust which is rc(.]uircd for 
exercising the gift of miracles. Nor is it knowledge and acceptance of 
the contents of the Bible. I say, it is not knowledge, it is not assent 



of the intellect, it is not historical faith, it is not dead faith; true 
justifying faith is none of these — it is seated in the heart and affec- 
tions." He paused, then added: "Now, I suppose, for practical 
purposes, I have described pretty well what justifying faith is." 
Charles hesitated: "By describing what it is not, you mean," said he; 
"justifying faith, then, is, I suppose, hving faith." "Not so fast," 
answered Freeborn. "Why," said Charles, "if it's not dead faith, it's 
living faith." "It's neither dead faith nor living," said Freeborn, "but 
faith, simple faith, which justifies. Luther was displeased with Melan- 
chthon for saying that living and operative faith justified. I have 
studied the question very carefully." "Then do yoii tell me," said 
Charles, "what faith is, since I do not explain it correctly. For 
instance, if you said (what you don't say) that faith was submission 
of the reason to mysteries, or an acceptance of Scripture as an 
historical document, I should know perfectly well what you meant; 
that is information: but when you say that faith which justifies is an 
apprehension of Christ, that it is not living faith, or fruitful faith, or 
operative, but a something which in fact and actually is distinct from 
these, I confess I feel perplexed." 

Freeborn wished to be out of the argument. "Oh," he said, "if 
you really once experienced the power of faith— how it changes the 
heart, enlightens the eyes, gives a new spiritual taste, a new sense to 
the soul; if you once knew what it was to be blind, and then to see, 
you would not ask for defmitions. Strangers need verbal descriptions; 
the heirs of the kingdom enjoy. Oh, if you could but be persuaded 
to put off high imaginations, to strip yourself of your proud self, 
and to experience in yourself the wonderful change, you would live 
in praise and thanksgiving, instead of argument and criticism." 
Charles was touched by liis warmth; "But," he said, "we ought to act 
by reason; and I don't see that I have more, or so much, reason to 
listen to you, as to listen to the Roman Catholic, who tells me I 
camiot possibly have that certainty of faith before believing, which 
on believing will be divinely given me." "Surely," said Freeborn, 
with a grave face, "you would not compare the spiritual Christian, 
such as Luther, holding his cardinal doctrine about justification, to 
any such formal, legal, superstitious devotee as Popery can make, 
with its carnal rites and quack remedies, which never really cleanse the 
soul or reconcile it to God?" "I don't like you to talk so," said 
Reding; "I know very little about the real nature of Popery; but 



when I was a boy, I was once, by chance, in a Roman Cathohc chapel; 
and I really never saw such devotion in my life— the people all on 
their knees, and most earnestly attentive to what was going on. I 
did not understand what that was; but I am sure, had you been there, 
you never would have called their religion, be it right or wrong, an 
outward form or carnal ordinance," Freeborn said it deeply pained 
him to hear such sentiments, and to fmd that Charles was so tainted 
with the errors of the day; and he began, not with much tact, to talk 
of the Papal Antichrist, and would have got off to prophecy, had 
Charles said a word to afford fuel for a discussion. As he kept silence, 
Freeborn's zeal burnt out, and there was a break in the conversation. 
After a time. Reding ventured to begin again. "If I understand 
you," he said, "faith carries its own evidence with it. Just as I cat my 
bread at breakfast without hesitation about its wholesomeness, so, 
when I have really faith, I know it beyond mistake, and need not 
look out for tests of it?" "Precisely so," said Freeborn; "you begin to 
see what I mean; you grow. The soul is enlightened to see that it has 
real faith," "But how," asked Charles, "are we to rescue those from 
their dangerous mistake, who think they have faith, while they have 
not? Is there no way in which they can fmd out that they are under 
a delusion?" "It is not wonderful," said Freeborn, "though there be 
no way. There are many self-deceivers in the world. Some men are 
self-righteous, trust in their works, and think they are safe when they 
are in a state of perdition; no formal rules can be given by which their 
reason might for certain detect their mistake. And so of false faith." 
"Well, it does seem to me wonderful," said Charles, "that there is no 
natural and obvious warning provided against this delusion; wonder- 
ful that false faith should be so exactly like true faith that the event 
alone determines their difference from each other. Effects imply 
causes: if one apprehension of Christ leads to good works, and another 
does not, there must be something in the one which is not /// the other. 
What is a false apprehension of Christ wanting in, which a true 
apprehension has? The word apprehension is so vague; it conveys no 
defmite idea to me, yet justification depends on it. Is it, for instance, 
wanting in repentance and amendment?" "No, no," said Freeborn; 
"true faith is complete without conversion; conversion follows; but 
faith is the root." "Is it the love of God wliich distinguishes true 
faith from false?" "Love?" answered Frecbom; "you should read 
what Luther says in his celebrated comment on the Galatians. He 

N — N 193 


calls such a doctrine 'pestileiisfgwentiim,' 'diaholi portentum;' and cries 
out against the Papists, 'Percaiit sophistcv cunt sua malcdictd glossal' " 
"Then it differs from false faith in nothing." "Not so," said Freeborn; 
"it differs from it in its fruits: 'By their fruits ye shall know them.' " 
"This is coming round to the same point again," said Charles; "fruits 
come after; but a man, it seems, is to take comfort in his justification 
before fruits come, before he knows that his faith will produce them." 
"Good works are the necessary fruits of faith," said Freeborn; "so says 
the Article." Charles made no answer, but said to himself, "My good 
friend here certainly has not the clearest of heads;" then aloud, 
"Well, I despair of getting at the bottom of the subject." "Of 
course," answered Freeborn, with an air of superiority, though in a 
mild tone, "it is a very simple principle, 'Fides justificat ante et sine 
charitate\ but it requires a divine light to embrace it." They walked 
awhile in silence; then, as the day was now closing in, they turned 
homewards, and parted company when they came to the Clarendon. 


Freeborn was not the person to let go a young man like Charles 
without another effort to gain him; and in a few days he invited him 
to take tea at his lodgings. Charles went at the appointed time, 
through the wet and cold of a dreary November evening, and found 
five or six men already assembled. He had got into another world; 
faces, manners, speeches, all were strange, and savoured neither of 
Eton, which was his own school, nor of Oxford itself. He was 
introduced, and found the awkwardness of a new acquaintance little 
relieved by the conversation wliich went on. It was a dropping fire 
of serious remarks; with pauses, reheved only by occasional "ahems," 
the sipping of tea, the sound of spoons falling against the saucers, 
and the blind shifting of chairs as the flurried servant-maid of the 
lodgings suddenly came upon them from behind, with the kettle for 
the teapot, or toast for the table. There was no nature or elasticity 
in the party, but a great intention to be profitable. 

"Have you seen the last 'Spiritual Journal?' " asked No. i of No. 2 
in a low voice. No. 2 had just read it. "A very remarkable article 
that," said No. i, "upon the death-bed of the Pope." "No one is 



beyond hope," answered No. 2. "I have heard of it, but not seen 
it," said No. 3. A pause. "What is it about?" asked Reding. "I he 
late Pope Sixtus the XlVth," said No. 3; "he seems to have died a 
disbeUever." A sensation. Charles looked as if he wished to know 
more. "The 'Journal' gives it on excellent authority," said No. 2; 
"Mr. O'Niggins, the agent for the Roman Priest Conversion Branch 
Tract Society, was in Rome during his last illness. He solicited an 
audience with the Pope, which was granted him. He at once began 
to address him on the necessity of a change of heart, belief in the one 
Hope of sinners, and abandonment of all creature mediators. He 
announced to him the glad tidings, and assured him there was pardon 
for all. He warned him against the figment of baptismal regenera- 
tion; and then, proceeding to apply the word, he urged him, though 
in the eleventh hour, to receive the Bible, the whole Bible, and 
nothing but the Bible. The Pope listened with marked attention, 
and displayed considerable emotion. When it was ended, he an- 
swered Mr. O'Niggins, that it was his fervent hope that they two 
would not die without finding themselves in one communion, or 
something of the sort. He declared moreover, what was astonishing, 
that he put his sole trust in Christ, 'the source of all merit,' as he 
expressed it— a remarkable phrase." "In what language was the 
conversation carried on?" asked Reding. "It is not stated," answered 
No. 2; "but I am pretty sure Mr. O'Niggins is a good French 
scholar." "It does not seem to me," said Charles, "that the Pope's 
admissions are greater than those made continually by certain 
members of our own Church, who are nevertheless accused of 
Popery." "But they are extorted from such persons," said Freeborn, 
"while the Pope's were voluntary." "The one party go back into 
darkness," said No. 3, "the Pope was coming forward into hght.'* 
"One ought to interpret every thing for the best in a real Papist," 
said Freeborn, "and every thing for the worst in a Puseyite. That is 
both charity and common sense." "This was not all," continued 
No. 2; "he called together the Cardinals, protested that he earnestly 
desired God's glory, said that inward religion was all in all, and forms 
nothing without a contrite heart, and that he trusted soon to be in 
Paradise, — which, you know, was a denial of the doctrine of Pur- 
gatory." "A brand from the burning, I do hope," said No. 3. "It has 
frequently been observed," said No, 4, "nay it has struck me myself, 
that the way to convert Romanists is first to convert the Pope." 



"It is a sure way, at least," said Charles timidly, afraid he was saying 
too much; but his irony was not discovered. "Man cannot do it," 
said Freeborn; "it's the power of faith. Faith can be vouchsafed 
even to the greatest sinners. You see now, perhaps," he said, 
turning to Charles, "better than you did, what I meant by faith 
the other day. This poor old man could have no merit; he had 
passed a long life in opposing the Cross. Do your difficulties 

Charles had thought over their former conversation very carefully 
several times, and he answered, "Why, I don't think they do to the 
same extent." Freeborn looked pleased. "I mean," he said, "that 
the idea hangs together better than I thought it did at first." Freeborn 
looked puzzled. Charles, slightly colouring, was obliged to proceed, 
amid the profound silence of the whole party. "You said, you know, 
that justifying faith v/as without love or any other grace besides itself, 
and that no one could at all tell what it was, except afterwards, from 
its fruits; that there was no test by which a person could examine him- 
self, whether or not he was deceiving himself when he thought he had 
faith, so that good and bad might equally be taking to themselves 
the promises and the privileges pecuHar to the gospel. I thought this 
a hard doctrine certainly at first; but then afterwards it struck me, 
that faith is perhaps a result of a previous state of mind, a blessed 
result of a blessed state, and therefore may be considered the reward 
of previous obedience; and sham faith, or what merely looks like 
faith, a judicial punishment." In proportion as the drift of the former 
part of this speech was uncertain, so was the conclusion very distinct. 
There was no mistake, and an audible emotion. "There is no such 
thing as previous merit," said No. i, "all is of grace." "Not merit, 
I know," said Charles, "but" — "We must not bring in the doctrine 
o£ de condi^no or de congriw" said No. 2. "But surely," said Charles, 
"it is a cruel thing to say to the unlearned and the multitude, 'Believe, 
and you are at once saved; do not wait for fruits, rejoice at once,' and 
neither to accompany this announcement by any clear description 
of what faith is, nor to secure them by previous religious training 
against self-deception?" "That is the very gloriousncss of the doc- 
trine," said Freeborn, "that it is preached to the worst of mankind. 
It says, 'Come as you are; don't attempt to make yourselves better. 
Believe that salvation is yours, and it is yours; good works follow 
after.' " "On the contrary," said Charles, continuing his argument, 



"when it is said that justification follows upon baptism, we have an 
intelhgible something pointed out, which every one can ascertain. 
Baptism is an external unequivocal token; whereas that a man has 
this secret feeling called faith, no one but himself can be a witness, 
and he is not an unbiassed one." 

Reding had at length succeeded in throwing that dull tea-table into 
a state of great excitement. "My dear friend," said Freeborn, "I had 
hoped better things; in a little while, I hope, you will see things 
differently. Baptism is an outward rite; what is there, can there be, 
spiritual, holy, or heavenly in baptism?" "But you tell me faith too 
is not spiritual," said Charles. "/ tell you!" cried Freeborn, "when?" 
"Well," said Charles, somewhat puzzled, "at least you do not think 
it holy." Freeborn was puzzled in his turn. "If it is holy," continued 
Charles, "it has something good in it; it has some worth; it is not 
filthy rags. All the good came afterwards, you said. You said that 
its fruits were holy, but that it was nothing at all itself" There was 
a momentary silence, and some agitation of thought. "Oh, faith is 
certainly a holy feeling," said No. i. "No, it is spiritual, but not holy," 
said No. 2; "it is a mere act, the apprehension of Christ's merits.' 
"It is seated in the affections," said No. 3; "fiith is a feeling of the 
heart; it is trust, it is a belief that Christ is my Saviour; all tliis is distinct 
from holiness. Holiness introduces self-righteousness. Faith is peace 
and joy, but it is not holiness. Holiness comes after." "Nothing can 
cause holiness but what is holy; tliis is a sort of axiom," said Charles; 
"if the fruits are holy, faith, wliich is the root, is holy." "You might 
as well say that the root of a rose is red, and of a lily, white," said 
No. 3. "Pardon me," said Freeborn, "it is, as my friend says, an 
apprehension. An apprehension is a seizing; there is no more holiness 
in justifying faith, than in the hand's seizing a substance wliich comes 
in its way. Tliis is Luther's great doctrine in his 'Commentary' on 
the Galatians. It is nothing in itself— it is a mere instrument; this is 
what he teaches, when he so vehemently resists the notion of justif)- 
ing faith being accompanied by love." 

"I cannot assent to that doctrine," said No. i; "it may be true in 
a certain sense, but it throws stumbling-blocks in the way of seekers. 
Luther could not have meant what you say, I am convinced. Justify- 
ing faith is always accompanied by love." "That is what I thought," 
said Charles. "That is the Romish doctruic all over," said No. 2; 
"it is the doctrine of Bull and Taylor." "Luther calls it 'vcucuum 



infcmale' " said Freeborn. "It is just what the Puseyites preach at 
present," said No. 3. "On the contrary," said No. i, "it is the 
doctrine of Melanchthon. Look here," he continued, taking his 
pocket-book out of his pocket, "I have got his words down, as 
Shufflcton quoted them in the Divinity-school the other day. 'Fi^es 
significat fiduciatn, hi fidiicia inest dilcctio; ergo etiam dilectione swims 
usti.' " Three of the party cried, Impossible; the paper was handed 
round in solemn silence. "Calvin said the same," said No. i triumph- 

"I think," said No. 4, in a slow, smooth, sustained voice, which 
contrasted with the animation which had suddenly inspired the con- 
versation, "that the con-tro-ver-sy, ahem, may be easily arranged. 
It is a question of words between Luther and Melanchthon. Luther 
says, ahem,' faith is without love,' meaning 'faith without love justifies.' 
Melanchthon, on the other hand, says, ahem, 'faith is with love,' 
meaning, 'faith justifies with love.' Now both are true; for, ahem, 
{siith-without-love justifies, yet faith justifies not-without-loue." There 
was a pause, while both parties digested this explanation. "On the 
contrary," he added, "it is the Romish doctrine that faith-with-love 
justifies." Freeborn expressed his dissent; he thought this the doctrine 
of Melanchthon which Luther condemned. "You mean," said 
Charles, "that justification is given to faith with love, not to faith and 
love." "You have expressed my meaning," said No. 4. "And what 
is considered the difference between with and and?" asked Charles. 
No. 4 replied without hesitation, "Faith is the instrument, love the 
sine qua non.'' Nos. 2 and 3 interposed with a protest; they thought 
it legal to introduce the phrase sine qua non; it was introducing 
conditions. Justification was unconditional. "But is not faith a con- 
dition?" asked Charles. "Certainly not," said Freeborn; " 'condition' 
is a legal word. How can salvation be free and full, if it is 
conditional?" "There are no conditions," said No. 3; "all must come 
from the heart. We believe with the heart, wc love from the heart, 
we obey with the heart; not because we are obliged, but because we 
have a new nature." "Is there no obligation to obey?" said Charles, 
surprised. "No obhgation to the regenerate," answered No. 3; 
"they are above obhgation; they are in a new state." "But surely 
Christians are under a law," said Charles. "Certainly not," said 
No. 2; "the law is done away in Christ." "Take care," said No. i; 
"that borders on Antinomianism." "Not at all," said Freeborn; 


t-^ "^ 





"an Antinomian actually holds that he may break the law; a spiritual 
believer only holds that he is not bound to keep it," 

Now they got into a fresh discussion among themselves; and as 
it seemed as interminable as it was uninteresting, Reding took an 
opportunity to wish his host a good night, and to slip away. He never 
had much leaning towards the evangelical doctrine; and F reeborn 
and his friends, who knew what they were holding much better than 
the run of their party, satisfied him that he had not much to gain by 
inquiring into that doctrine fuxther. So they will vanish in con- 
sequence from our pages. 


When Charles got to his room, he saw a letter from home lying on 
his table; and,; to his alarm it had a deep black edge. He tore it open, 
Alas, it announced the sudden death of his dear father. He had been 
'ailing some weeks with the gout, which at length had attacked his 
stomach, and carried him off in a few hours, 

O my poor dear Charles, I sympathise with you keenly all that 

long night, and that indescribable waking in the morning, and that 

dreary day of travel which followed it ! By the afternoon you were 

. ,-at home, O piercing change ! it was but six or seven weeks before, 

J^ that you had passed the same objects the reverse way, with what 

^H^ different feelings, and oh, in what company, as you made for the 

railway omnibus! It was a grief not to be put into words; and to 

meet mother, sisters, and the Dead ! . . . 

The funeral is over by some days; Charles is to remain at home the 
remainder of the term, and does not return to Oxford till towards 
the end of January. The signs of grief have been put away; the house 
looks cheerful as before; the fire as bright, the mirrors as soft, the 
furniture as orderly; the pictures are the same, and the ornaments on 
the mantelpiece stand as they have stood, and the French clock tells 
the hour, as it has told it, for years past. The inmates of the parsonage 
wear, it is most true, the signs of a heavy bereavement; but they 
converse as usual, and on ordinary subjects; they pursue the same 
employments, they work, they read, they walk in the garden, they 
dine. There is no change except in the inward consciousness of an 



overwhelming loss. He is not there, not merely on this day or that, 
for so it well might be; he is not merely away, but, as they know well, 
he is gone and will not return. That he is absent now, is but a token 
and a memorial to their minds that he will be absent always. But 
especially at dinner: Charles had to take a place wliich he had some- 
times filled, but then as the deputy, and in the presence, of him whom 
now he succeeded. His father, being not much more than a middle- 
aged man, had been accustomed to carve himself And when, at the 
meal of the day, Charles looked up, he had to encounter the troubled 
look of one, who, from her place at table, had before her eyes a still 
more vivid memento of their common loss: — aliquid desideraverunt 

Mr. Reding had left his family well provided for; and this, though 
a real alleviation of their loss in the event, perhaps augmented the 
pain of it at the moment. He had ever been a kind, indulgent father. 
He was a most respectable clergyman of the old school; pious in his 
sentiments, a gentleman in his feelings, exemplary in his social 
relations. He was no reader, and never had been in the way to gain 
theological knowledge; he sincerely believed all that was in the 
Prayer-book, but his sermons were very rarely doctrinal. They were 
sensible, manly discourses on the moral duties. He administered holy 
communion at the three great festivals, saw his Bishop once or twice 
a-year, was on good terms with the country gentlemen in his neigh- 
bourhood, was charitable to the poor, hospitable in his house-keeping, 
and was a stanch, though not a violent, supporter of the Tory interest 
in his county. He was incapable of any thing harsh, or petty, or low, 
or uncourteous; and died esteemed by the great houses about him, 
and lamented by his parishioners. 

It was the first great grief poor Charles had now had, and he felt it 
to be real. How did the small anxieties v/hich had of late teased him, 
vanish before tliis tangible calamity ! He then understood the differ- 
ence between what was real and what was not. All the doubts, 
inquiries, surmises, views, which had of late haunted him on theo- 
logical subjects, seemed like so many shams, which flitted before him 
in sun-bright hours, but had no root in his inward nature, and fell 
from him, like the helpless December leaves, in the hour of his 
affliction. He felt now where his heart and his life lay. His birth, his 
parentage, his education, his home, were great realities; to these his 
being was united; out of these he grew. He felt he must be what 



Providence had made him. What is called the pursuit of truth, 
seemed an idle dream. He had great tangible duties, to his father's 
memory, to his mother and sisters, to his position; he felt sick of all 
theories, as if they had taken him in; and he secretly resolved never 
more to have any thing to do with them. Let the world go on as it 
might, happen what would to others, his own place and his own 
path were clear. He would go back to Oxford, attend steadily to his 
books, put aside all distractions, avoid bye-paths, and do his best to 
acquit himself well in the schools. The Church of England as it was, 
its Articles, Bishops, preachers, professors, had suffered for much 
better persons than he was; they were good enough for him. He 
could not do better than imitate the life and death of liis beloved 
father; a quiet time in the country, at a distance from all excitements, 
a round of pious, useful work among the poor, the care of a village 
school, and at length the death of the righteous. 

At the moment, and for some time to come, he had special duties 
towards his mother; he wished, as far as might be, to supply to her 
the place of him she had lost. She had great trials before her still; 
if it was a grief to himself to leave Hartley, what would it be to her? 
Not many months would pass over, when she would have to quit 
a place ever dear, and now sacred to her thoughts; there was in store 
for her the anguish of dismantling the home of many years, and the 
toil and whirl of packing; a wearied head and an aching heart at a 
time when she would have most need of self-possession and energy. 

Such were the thoughts which came upon him again and again in 
those sorrowful weeks. A_leaf had been turned over in his Hfe; he. 
could not be what he had been. People come to man's estate at 
vej-y different ages. Youngest sons in a family, like monks in a 
convent, may remain children till they have reached middle age; 
but the elder, should their father die prematurely, are suddenly 
_ripened into manhood, when they are almost boys. Charles had left 
Oxford a clever, unformed youth; he returned a man. 


Part II 

A bout fiv e miles fi:om Oxford, a thickly wooded village lies on the 
side of a steep long hill or chine, looking over the Berkshire woods, 
and commanding a view of the many-turreted city itself. Over its 
broad summit once stretched a chestnut forest; and now it is covered 
with roots of trees, or furze, or soft turf. The red sand which lies 
underneath contrasts with the green, and makes it still more brilliant 
than it is; it drinks too the rain greedily, so that the wide common is 
nearly always fit for walking; and the air, unlike the heavy atmo- 
sphere of the University beneath it, is fresh and bracing. The gorse 
was still in bloom in the latter end of the month of June, when 
Reding and Sheffield took up their abode in a small cottage at the 
upper end of this village, — so hid with trees and girt-in with meadows 
that for the stranger it was hard to find, — there to pass their third and 
last long vacation, before going into the schools. 

A year and a half had passed since Charles's great affliction, and the 
time had not been unprofitably spent either by himself or his friend. 
Both had read very regularly, and Sheffield had gained the Latin 
verse into the bargain. Char les had put all religious perplexities 
aside; that is, he knew of course many more persons of all parties 
tiian he Jid before, and became better acquainted with their tenets 
and their characters; but he did not dwell upon any thing which he 
met with, nor attempt to determine the merits or solve the difficulties 
of this or that question. He took things as they came; and, while he 
gave his mind to his books, he thankfully availed himself of the 
religious privileges which the College system afforded him. Nearly 
a year still remained before his examination; and, as Mrs. Reding 
had not yet fully arranged her plans, but was still with her daughters, 
passing from friend to friend, he had listened to Sheffield's proposal, 
to take a tutor for the Vacation, and to find a site for their studies in 



the neighbourhood of Oxford. There was every prospect of their 
both succeeding in obtaining the highest honours which the schools 
award: they were both good scholars and clever men; they had 
read regularly, and had had the advantage of good lectures. 

The side of the hill forms a large sweeping hollow or theatre just 
on one side of the village d^^Horsley. ' The two extreme points may 
be half a mile across; but the distance is increased to one who follows 
the path which winds through the furze and fern along the ridge. 
Their tutor had been unable to fnid lodgings in the village; and, 
while the two young men lived on one extremity of the sweep we 
have been describing, Mr. Carlton, who was not above three years 
older than they, had planted himself at a farm-house upon the other. 
Besides, the farm-house suited him better, as being nearer to a hamlet 
which he was serving during tlie Vacation. 

"I don't think you like Carlton so well as I do," said Reding to 
Sheffield, as they lay on the greensward with some lighter classic in 
their hands, waiting for dinner, and watching their friend as he 
approached them from his lodging. "He is to me so taking a man; 
so equable, so gentle, so considerate — he brings people together, and 
fills them with confidence in himself, and friendly feeling towards 
each other, more than any person I know." "You are wrong," said 
Sheffield, "if you think I don't value him extremely, and love him 
too; it's impossible not to love him. But he's not the person quite to 
get influence over me." "He's too much of an Anglican for you," 
said Reding. "Not at all," said Sheffield, "except indirectly. My 
quarrel with him is, that he has many original thoughts, and holds 
many profound truths in detail, but is quite unable to see how 
they lie to each other — and equally unable to draw consequences. 
He never sees a truth until he touches it; he is ever groping and 
feeling, and, as in hide-and-seek, continually burns without dis- 
covering. I know there are ten thousand persons who cannot see an 
inch before their nose, and who can comfortably digest contradic- 
tions: but Carlton is a really clever man; he is no common tliinker; 
this makes it so provoking. When I write an essay for him, — I know 
I write obscurely, and often do not bring out the sequence of my 
ideas in due order, — but, so it is, he is sure to cut out the very thought 
or statement on which I especially pride myself, on which the whole 
argument rests, which binds every part together; and he coolly tells 
me that it is extravagant or far-fetched — not seeing that b)' leaving 



it out, he lias made nonsense of the rest. He is a man to rob an arch 
of its key-stone, and then quietly to build his house upon it." "Ah, 
your old failing again," said Reding; "a craving after views. Now 
what I like in Carlton is, that repose of his;— always saying enough, 
never too much; never boring you, never taxing you; always practi- 
cal, never in the clouds. Save me from a viewy man; I could not 
live with him for a week, present company always excepted." "Now, 
considering how hard I have read, and how httle I have talked this 
year past, that is hard on me," said Sheffield. "Did not I go to be one 
of old Thruston's sixteen pupils last Long? He gave us capital feeds, 
smoked with us, and coached us in Ethics and the Agamemnon. He 
knows his books by heart, can repeat his plays backwards, and weighs 
out his Aristotle by grains and pennyweights; but for generahsations, 
ideas, poetry, oh, it was desolation — it was a darkness wliich could 
be felt." "And you stayed there just six weeks out of four months, 
Sheffield," answered Reding. 

Carlton had now neared them, and, after introductory greetings 
on both sides, he too threw himself upon the turf. Sheffield said, 
"Reding and I were disputing just now whether Nicias was a party 
man." "Of course, you first defmed your terms," said Carlton. 
"Well," said Sheffield, "I mean by a party man, one who not only 
belongs to a party, but who has the animus of party. Nicias did not 
make a party, he found one made. He found liimself at the head of 
it; he was no more a party man than a prince who was born the head 
of his state." "I should agree with you," said Carlton; "but still I 
should like to know what a party is, and what a party man." "A 
party," said Sheffield, "is merely an extra-constitutional or extra-legal 
body." "Part)^ action," said Charles, "is the exertion of influence 
instead of law." "But supposing. Reding, there is no law existing 
in the quarter where influence exerts itself?" asked Carlton. Charles 
had to explain; "Certainly," he said, "the state did not legislate for 
all possible contingencies." "For instance," continued Carlton, 
"a prime minister, I have understood, is not acknowledged in the 
constitution; he exerts influence beyond the law, but not, in con- 
sequence, against any existing law; and it would be absurd to talk of 
him as a party man." "ParHamentary parties, too, are recognized 
among us," said Sheffield, "though extra-constitutional. We call 
them parties; but who would call the Duke of Devonshire or Lord 
John Russell, in a bad sense, a party man?" "It seems to me," said 



Carlton, "that the formation of a party is merely a recurrence to the 
original mode of forming into society. You recollect Deioces; he 
formed a party. He gained influence; lie laid the foundation of 
social order." "Law certainly begins in influence," said l^eding, 
"for it presupposes a lawgiver; afterwards it supersedes influence; 
from that time the exertion of influence is a sign of party." "Too 
broadly said, as you yourself just now allowed," said Carlton; "you 
should say that law begins to supersede influence, and that in proportion 
as it supersedes it, does the exertion of influence involve party- 
action. For instance, has not the crown an immense personal in- 
fluence? we talk of the Court party; yet it does not interfere with law, 
it is intended to concihate the people to the law." "But it is 
recognised by law and constitution," said Charles, "as was the 
Dictatorship." "Well then, take the influence of the clergy," 
answered Carlton; "we make much of that influence as a principle 
supplemental to the law, and a support to the law, yet not created or 
defined by the law. The law does not recognise what some one calls 
truly a 'resident gentleman' in every parish. Influence, then, instead 
of law is not necessarily the action of party." "So again, national 
character is an influence distinct from the law," said SheflTield, 
"according to the line, — 'Quid leges sine moribus?' " "Law," said 
Carlton, "is but gradually formed and extended. Well, then, so 
far as there is no law, there is the reign of influence; there is party 
without of necessity party-action. This is the justification of Whigs 
and Tories at the present day; to supply, as Aristotle says on another 
subject, the defects of the law. Charles the First exerted a regal, 
Walpole a ministerial influence; but influence, not law, was the 
operating principle in both cases. The object or the means might 
be wrong, but the process could not be called party-action." "You 
would justify, then," said Charles, "the associations or confraternities 
which existed, for instance, in Athens; not, that is, if they 'took the 
law into their own hands,' as the phrase goes, but if there was no 
law to take, or if there was no constituted authority to take it. It 
was a recurrence to the precedent of Deioces." "Manzoni gives a 
striking instance of this, in the beginning of his Proiiicssi SposiJ* said 
Sheffield, "when he speaks of the protection which law ought to give 
to the weak, being in the sixteenth century sought and found almost 
exclusively in factions or companies. I don't recollect particulars, 
but he describes the clergy as busy in extending their immunities, 



the nobility their privileges, the army their exemptions, the trades 
and artisans their guilds. Even the lawyers formed a union, and 
medical men a corporation." 

"Thus, constitutions are gradually moulded and perfected," said 
Carlton, "by extra-constitutional bodies, either coming under the 
protection of law, or else being superseded by the law's providing 
for their objects. In the middle ages the Church was a vast extra- 
constitutional body. The German and Anglo-Norman sovereigns 
wished to bring its operation under the law; modern parliaments have 
superseded its operation by law. Then the State wished to gain the 
right of investitures; now the State marries, registers, manages the 
poor, exercises ecclesiastical jurisdiction, instead of the Church." 
"This will make ostracism parallel to the Reformation or the Revolu- 
tion," said Sheffield; "there is a battle of influence against influence, 
and one gets rid of the other; law or constitution does not come into 
question, but the will of the people or the court ejects, whether the 
too-gifted individual, or the monarch, or the religion. What was not 
under the law could not be dealt with, had no claim to be dealt with, 
by the law." "A thought has sometimes struck me," said Charles, 
"which falls in with what you have been saying. In the last half 
century there has been a gradual formation of the popular party in the 
State, which now tends to be acknowledged as constitutional, or is 
already so acknowledged. My father never could endure newspapers 
— I mean, the system of newspapers; he said it was a new power in the 
State. I am sure I am not defending, what he was thinking of, the 
many bad things, the wretched principles, the arrogance and tyramiy 
of newspaper-writers, but I am trying the subject by the test of your 
theory. The great body of the people are very imperfectly repre- 
sented in Parliament; the Commons are not their voice, but the voice 
of certain great interests. Consequently the press comes in, to do that 
which the constitution does not do, to form the people into a vast 
mutual-protection association. And this is done by the same right 
that Deioces had to collect people about him; it does not interfere 
with the existing territory of the law, but builds where the constitu- 
tion has not made provision. It tends, then, ultimately to be recog- 
nised by the constitution." 

"There is another remarkable phenomenon of a similar kind now 
in process of development," said Carlton, "and that is, the influence 
of agitation. I really am not politician enough to talk of it as good or 



bad; one's natural instinct is against it; but it may be necessary. 
However, agitation is getting to be recognised as the legitimate 
instrument by which the masses make their desires known and secure 
the accomplishment of them. Just as a bill passes in Parliament, after 
certain readings, discussions, speeches, votings, and the like; so the 
process by which an act of the popular will becomes law, is a long 
agitation, issuing in petitions, previous to and concurrent with the 
Parliamentary process. The first instance of this was about fifty or 
sixty years ago, when . . . Hallo!" he cried, "who is this cantering 
up to us?" "I declare it is old Vincent," said Sheffield. **He is come 
to dine," said Charles; "just in time." "How are you, Carlton?" 
cried Vincent; "how d'ye do, Mr. Sheffield? Mr. Reding, how d'ye 
do? acting up to your name, I suppose, for you were ever a reading 
man. For myself," he continued, "I am just now an eating man, and 
am come to dine with you, if you will let me. Have you a place for 
my horse?" There was a farmer near, who could lend a stable; so 
the horse was led off by Charles; and the rider, without any delay — 
for the hour did not admit it — entered the cottage to make his brief 
preparation for dinner. 


In a few minutes all met together at table in the small parlour, 
which was room of all work in the cottage. They had not the whole 
house, limited as were its resources; for it was also the habitation of 
a gardener, who took his vegetables to the Oxford market, and whose 
wife, what is called, did for his lodgers. 

Dinner was suited to the apartment, apartment to the dinner. The 
book-table had been hastily cleared for a cloth, not over-wliite, and, 
in consequence, the sole remaining table, which acted as sideboard, 
displayed a relay of plates, and knives and forks, in the midst of 
octavos and duodecimos, bound and unbound, piled up and thrown 
about in great variety of shapes. The other ornaments of this side- 
table were an ink-glass, some quires of large paper, a straw hat, a 
gold watch, a clothes-brush, some bottles of ginger-beer, a pair o{ 
gloves, a case of cigars, a neck-handkerchief, a shoe-horn, a small slate, 
a large clasp-knife, a hammer, and a h^rndsome inlaid writing-desk. 



"I like these rides into the country," said Vincent, as they began 
eating; "the country loses its effect on me when I live in it, as you 
do; but it is exquisite as a zest. Visit it, do not Hve in it, if you would 
enjoy it. Country air is a stimulus; stimulants, Mr. Reding, 
should not be taken too often. You are of the country party. I am 
of no party. I go here and there, like the bee; I taste of every thing, 
I depend on nothing." Sheffield said, that this was rather belonging 
to all parties, than to none. "That is impossible," answered Vincent; 
"I hold it to be altogether impossible. You can't belong to two 
parties; there's no fear of it; you might as well attempt to be in two 
places at once. To be connected with both is to be united with 
neither. Depend on it, my young friend, anatagonist principles 
correct each other. It's a piece of philosophy which one day you will 
thank me for, when you are older." "I have heard of an American 
illustration of tliis," said Sheffield, "wliich certainly confirms what 
you say, sir. Professors in the United States are sometimes of two or 
three rehgions at once, according as we regard them historically, 
personally, or officially. In this way, perhaps, they hit the mean." 
Vincent, though he so often excited a smile in others, had no humour 
himself; and never could make out the difference between irony and 
earnest. Accordingly he was brought to a stand. Charles came to his 
relief. "Before dinner," he said, "we were sporting what you v/ill 
consider a great paradox, I am afraid; that parties were good things, 
or rather necessary things." "You don't do me justice," answered 
Vincent, "if this is what you think I mean. I halve your words; parties 
are not good, but necessary; like snails, I don't envy them their small 
houses, or try to lodge in them." "You mean," said Carlton, "that 
parties do our dirty work; they are our beasts of burden; we could 
not get on without them, but we need not identify ourselves with 
them; we may keep aloof." "That," said Sheffield, "is sometliing 
like those rehgious professors who say that it is sinful to engage in 
worldly though necessary occupations; but that the reprobate under- 
take them, and work for the elect." "There will always be persons 
enough in the world who like to be party men, without being told 
to be so," said Vincent; "it's our business to turn them to account, 
to use them, but to keep aloof I take it, all parties are partly right, 
only they go too far. I borrow from each, I co-operate wdth each, 
as far as each is right, and no further. Thus I get good from all, 
and I do good to all; for I countenance each, so far as it is true." 



"Mr. Carlton meant more than that, sir," said Sheffield; "he meant 
that the existence of parties was not only necessary and useful, but 
even right," "Mr. Carlton is not the man to make paradoxes," said 
Vincent; "I suspect he would not defend the extreme opinions which, 
alas, exist among us at present, and are progressing every day." "I 
was speaking of political parties," said Carlton; "but I am disposed 
to extend what I said to religious also." "But, my good Carlton," 
said Vincent, "Scripture speaks against religious parties." "Certainly, 
I don't wish to oppose Scripture," said Carlton, "and I speak under 
correction of Scripture; but I say this, that whenever and wherever 
a Church does not decide religious points, so far does it leave the 
decision to individuals; and, since you can't expect all people to agree 
together, you must have different opinions; and the expression of 
those different opinions by the various persons who hold them is what 
is called a party." "Mr. Carlton has been great, sir, on the general 
subject before dinner," said Sheffield, "and now he draws the 
corollary, that, whenever there are parties in a Church, a Church may 
thank itself for them. They are the certain effect of private judgment; 
and the more private judgment you have, the more parties you will 
have. You are reduced, then, to this alternative, no toleration or 
party; and you must recognise party, unless you refuse toleration." 
"Sheffield words it more strongly than I should do," said Carlton; 
"but really I mean pretty much what he says. Take the case of the 
Roman Catholics; they have decided many points of theology, many 
they have not decided; and wherever there is no ecclesiastical decision, 
there they have at once a party; and when the ecclesiastical decision at 
length appears, then the party ceases. Thus you have the Dominicans 
and Franciscans contending about the Immaculate Conception; they 
went on contending because authority did not at once decide the 
question. On the other hand, when Jesuits and Jansenists disputed 
on the question of grace, the Pope gave it in favour of the Jesuits, 
and the controversy at once came to an end." "Surely," said Vincent, 
"my good and worthy friend, the Rev. Charles Carlton, Fellow of 
Leicester, and sometime Ireland Essayist, is not preferring the Church 
of Rome to the Church of England." Carlton laughed; "you won't 
suspect me of that, I think", he answered; "no; all I say is, that our 
Church, from its constitution, admits, approves of private judgment; 
and that private judgment, so far forth as it is admitted, necessarily 
involves parties; the slender private judgment allowed in the Church 

N — O 209 


of Rome admitting occasional or local parties, and the ample private 
judgment allowed in our Church recognizing parties as an clement of 
the Church." "Well, well, my good Carlton," said Vincent, frown- 
ing and looking wise, yet without fmding any thing particular to say. 
"You mean," said Sheffield, "if I understand you, that it is a piece of 
mawkish hypocrisy to shake the head or throw up the eyes at Mr. this 
or that for being the head of a religious party, while we return thanks 
for our pure and reformed Church; because purity, reformation, 
apostolicity, toleration, all these boasts and glories of the Church of 
England, establish party action and party spirit as a cognate blessing, 
for which we should be thankful. Party is one of our greatest orna- 
ments, Mr. Vincent." "A sentiment or argument does not lose in 
your hands," said Carlton; "but what I meant was simply that party 
leaders are not dishonourable in the Church, unless Lord John Russell 
or Sir Robert Peel hold a dishonourable post in the State," "My 
young friend," said Vincent, finishing his mutton, and pushing his 
plate from him, "my two young friends, — for Carlton is not much 
older than Mr. Sheffield, — may you learn a little more judgment. 
"When you have lived to my age" (viz, two or three years beyond 
Carlton's), "you will learn sobriety in all things. Mr. Reding, another 
glass of wine. See that poor child how she totters under the goose- 
berry-pudding; up, Mr. Sheffield, and help her. The old woman 
cooks better than I had expected. How do you get your butcher's 
meat here, Carlton? I should have made the attempt to bring you a 
fine jack I saw in our kitchen, but I thought you would have no means 
of cooking it." 

Dinner over, the party rose, an^strollcd outpn the green. Another 
subject commenced. "Was no(t Mr. Willis of St. George's a friend 
of yours, Mr. Reding?" asked Vmcent^ Charles started; "I knew him 
a little ... I have seen him several times." "You know he left us," 
continued Vincent, "and joined the Church of Rome. Well, it is 
credibly reported that he is returning." "A melancholy history, 
anyhow," answered Charles; "most melancholy, if this is true." 
"Rather," said Vincent, setting him right, as if he had simply made a 
verbal mistake, "a most happy termination, you mean; the only 
thing that was left for him to do. You know he went abroad. Any 
one who is inclined to Romanise should go abroad; Carlton, we shall 
be sending you soon. Here things are softened down; there you see 
the Church of Rome as it really is. I have been abroad, and should 



know it. Such heaps of beggars in the streets of Rome and Naples; 
so much squahdness and misery; no cleanliness; an utter absence of 
comfort; and such superstition; and such an abuse of all true and 
evangelical seriousness. They push and fight while Mass is going on; 
they jabber their prayers at railroad speed; they worship the Virgin 
as a goddess; and they see miracles at the corner of every street. Their 
images are awful, and their ignorance prodigious. Well, Willis saw 
all this; and I have it on good authority," he said mysteriously, "that 
he is thoroughly disgusted with the whole affair, and is coming 
back to us." "Is he in England now?" asked Charles. "He is said to 
be with his mother in Devonshire, who, perhaps you know, is a 
widow; and he has been too much for her. Poor silly fellow, who 
would not take the advice of older heads ! A friend once sent him to 
me; I could make nothing of him. I couldn't understand his argu- 
ments, nor he mine. It was no good; he would make trial himself, 
and he has caught it." 

There was a short pause in the conversation; then Vincent added, 
"But such perversions, Carlton, I suppose, thinks to be as necessary 
as parties, in a pure Protestant Church." "I can't say you satisfy me, 
Carlton," said Charles; "and I am happy to have the sanction of Mr. 
Vincent. Did pohtical party make men rebels, then would political 
party be indefensible; so is religious, if it leads to apostasy." "You 
know the Whigs were accused in the last war," said Sheffield, "of 
siding with Bonaparte; accidents of this kind don't affect general 
rules or standing customs." "Well, independent of this," answered 
Charles, "I caimot think religious parties defensible on the considera- 
tions which justify pohtical. There is, to my feelings, something 
despicable in heading a religious party." "Was Loyola despicable," 
asked Sheffield, "or St. Dominic?" "They had the sanction of their 
superiors," said Charles. "You are hard on parties surely. Reding," 
said Carlton; "a man may individually write, preach, and publish 
what he believes to be the truth, without offence; why, then, docs it 
begin to be wrong, when he does so together with others?" "Party 
tactics are a degradation of the truth," said Charles. "We have heard, 
I believe, before now," said Carlton, "of Athanasius against the whole 
world, and the whole world against Athanasius." "Well," answered 
Charles, "I will but say this, that a party man must be very much 
above par or below it." "There, again, I don't agree," said Carlton; 
"you are supposing the leader of a party to be conscious of what he 



is doing; and, being conscious, he may be, as you say, either much 
above or below the average: but a man need not reahse to himself 
that he is forming a party." "That's more difficult to conceive," said 
Vincent, "than any statement which has been hazarded this after- 
noon." "Not at all difficult," answered Carlton: "do you mean 
that there is only one way of gaining influence? surely there is such 
a thing as unconscious influence?" "I'd as easily beheve," said 
Vincent, "that a beauty does not know her charms." "That's narrow- 
minded," retorted Carlton: "a man sits in his room and writes, and 
does not know what people think of him." "I'd beheve it less," 
persisted Vincent; "beauty is a fact; influence is an effect. Effects 
imply agents; agency, will and consciousness." "There are different 
modes of influence," interposed Sheffield; "influence is often spon- 
taneous and almost necessary." "Like the light on Moses' face," said 
Carlton. "Buonaparte is said to have had an irresistible smile," said 
Sheffield. "What is beauty itself, but a spontaneous influence?" 
added Carlton; "don't you recollect 'the lovely young Lavinia,' in 
Thomson?" "Well, gentlemen," said Vincent, "when I am Chan- 
cellor, I will give a prize-essay on 'Moral Influence, its kinds and 
causes,' and Mr. Sheffield shall get it; and as to Carlton, he shall be 
my Poetry Professor, when I am Convocation." 

You will say, good reader, that the party took a very short stroll 
on the hill, when we tell you that they were now stooping their heads 
at the lowly door of the cottage; but the terse ''litter a script a' abridges 
wondrously the rambling ''vox etnissa/' and there might be other 
things said in the course of the conversation, which liistory has not 
condescended to record. Any how, we are obhged now to usher 
them^again into the room where they had dined, and where they 
found tea ready laid, and the kettle speedily forthcoming. The bread 
and butter were excellent; and the party did justice to them, as if 
they had not lately dined. "I see you keep your tea in tin cases," 
said Vincent; "I am for glass. Don't spare the tea, Mr. Reding; 
Oxford men do not commonly fail on that head. Lord Bacon says 
that the first and best juice of the grape, like the primary, purest, and 
best comment on Scripture, is not pressed and forced out, but consists 
of a natural exudation. This is the case in Italy at tliis day; and they 
call the juice 'lagrima' So it is with tea, and with coffee too. Put in 
a large quantity, pour on the water, turn off the hquor; turn it off 
at once — don't let it stand; it becomes poisonous. I am a great 



patron of tea; the poet truly says, 'It cheers, but not inebriates.' It 
has sometimes a singular effect upon my nerves; it makes me whistle 
— so people tell me; I am not conscious of it. Sometimes, too, it has 
a dyspeptic effect. I fmd it does not do to take it too hot; we English 
drink our liquors too hot. It is not a French failing; no, indeed. In 
France, that is in the country, you get nothing for breakfast but acid 
wine and grapes; this is the other extreme, and has before now affected 
me awfully. Yet acids, too, have a soothing, sedative effect upon 
one; lemonade especially. But nothing suits me so well as tea. 
Carlton," he continued mysteriously, "do you know the late Dr. 
Baillie's preventative of the flatulency which tea produces? Mr. 
Sheffield, do you?" Both gave up. "Camomile flowers; a little 
camomile, not a great deal; some people chew rhubarb, but a little 
camomile in the tea is not perceptible. Don't make faces, Mr. 
Sheffield; a little, I say; a little of every thing is best: 'ne quid nimis.' 
Avoid all extremes. So it is with sugar. Mr. Reding, you are putting 
too much into your tea. I lay down this rule: sugar should not be 
a substantive ingredient in tea, but an adjective; that is, tea has a 
natural roughness; sugar is only intended to remove that rougliness; 
it has a negative office; when it is more than this, it is too much. Well, 
Carlton, it is time for me to be seeing after my horse. I fear he has 
not had so pleasant an afternoon as I. I have enjoyed myself much in 
your suburban villa. What a beautiful moon ! but I have some very 
rough ground to pass over. I daren't canter over the ruts with the 
gravel-pits close before me. Mr. Sheffield, do me the favour to shew 
me the way to the stable. Good bye to you, Carlton; good night, 
Mr. Reding." 

When they were left to themselves, Charles asked Carlton if he 
really meant to acquit of party-spirit the present party-leaders in 
Oxford. "You must not misunderstand me," answered he; "I do not 
know much of them, but I know they are persons of great merit and 
high character, and I wish to think the best of them. They are most 
unfairly attacked, that is certain; however, they are accused of wishing 
to make a display, of aiming at influence and power, of loving 
agitation, and so on. I cannot deny that some things they have done 
have an unpleasant appearance, and give plausibihty to the charge. 
I wish they had, at certain times, acted otherwise. Meanwhile, I do 
think it but fair to keep in view that the existence of parties is no fault 
of theirs. They are but claiming their birtli-riglit as Protestants. 



When the Church does not speak, others will speak instead; and 
learned men have the best right to speak. Again, when learned men 
speak, others will attend to them: and thus the formation of a party- 
is rather the act of those who follow than of those who lead." 


Sheffield had some friends residing at Chalton, a neighbouring 
village, with a scholar of St. Michael's, who had a small cure with a 
house on it. One of them, indeed, was known to Reding also, being 
no other than our friend White, who was going into the schools, 
and during the last six months had been trying to make up for the 
time he had wasted in the first years of his residence. Charles had lost 
sight of him, or nearly so, since he first knew him; and at their time 
of lifejo^ considerable an interval could not elapse without changes 
in the character for good or evil, or for both. Carlton and Charles, 
who were a good deal thrown together by Sheffield's frequent 
engagements with the Chalton party, were just turning homewards 
in their walk one evening, when they fell in with White, who had 
been calling at Mr. Bolton's in Oxford, and was returning. They 
had not proceeded very far before they were joined by Sheffield 
and Mr, Barry, the curate of Chalton; and thus the party was swelled 
to five. 

"So you are going to lose Upton?" said Barry to Reding; "a 
capital tutor; you can ill spare him. Who comes into his place?" 
"We don't know," answered Charles; "the Principal will call up one 
of the Junior Fellows from the country, I believe." "Oh, but you 
won't get a man like Upton," said Carlton: "he knew his subjects so 
thoroughly. His lecture in the Agricola, I've heard your men say, it 
might have been published. It was a masterly, minute running com- 
ment on the text, quite exhausting it." "Yes, it was his forte," said 
Charles; "yet he never loaded liis lectures; every thing he said had a 
meaning, and was wanted." "He has got a capital living," said 
Barry; "a substantial modern house, and by the rail only an hour 
from London." "And 500/. a-year," said White; "Mr. Bolton went 
over the living, and told me so. It's in my future neighbourhood; 
a very beautiful country, and a number of good families round 



about." **Tlicy say he's going to marry the Dean of Selscy's 
daughter," said Barry; "do you know the family? Miss JuHet, the 
thirteenth, a very pretty girl." "Yes," said White, "I know them all; 
a most delightful family; Mrs. Bland is a charming woman, so very 
lady-hke. It's my good luck to be under the Dean's jurisdiction; 
I think I shall pull with him capitally." "He's a clever man," said 
Barry; "his charges are always well written; he had a high name in his 
day at Cambridge." "Hasn't he been lately writing against your 
friends here. White?" said Sheffield. "My friends?" said White; 
"whom can you mean? He has written against parties and party- 
leaders; and with reason, I think. Oh, yes; he alluded to poor Willis 
and some others." "It was more than that," insisted Sheffield; "he 
charged against certain sayings and doings at St. Mary's." "Well, 
I for one cannot approve of all that is uttered from the pulpit there," 
said White; "I know for a fact that Willis refers with great satisfaction 
to what he heard there, as inclining him to Romanism." "I wish 
preachers and hearers would all go over together at once, and then 
we should have some quiet time for proper University studies," said 
Barry. "Take care what you are saying, Barry," said Sheffield; 
"you mean present company excepted. You, White, I think, come 
under the denomination of hearers." "I!" said White; "no such 
thing. I have been to hear him before now, as most men have; but 
I think him often very injudicious, or worse. The tendency of his 
preaching is to make one dissatisfied with one's own Church." 
"Well," said Sheffield, "one's memory plays one tricks, or I should 
say that a friend of mine had said ten times as strong things against 
our Church as any preacher in Oxford ever did." "You mean me," 
said White, with earnestness; "you have misunderstood me griev- 
ously. I have ever been most faithful to the Church of England. You 
never heard me say any thing inconsistent with the warmest attach- 
ment to it. I have never, indeed, denied the claims of the Romish 
Church to be a branch of the Catholic Church, nor will I, — that's 
another thing quite; there are many things which we might borrow 
with great advantage from the Romanists. But I have ever loved, 
and hope I shall ever venerate, my own Mother, the Church of my 

Sheffield made an odd face, and no one spoke. White continued, 
attempting to preserve an unconcerned manner: "It is remarkable that 
Mr. Bolton, who, though a layman, and no divine, is a sensible, 



practical, shrewd man, never liked that pulpit; he always prophesied 
no good would come of it." The silence continuing, White presently 
fell upon Sheffield. "I defy you," he said, with an attempt to be 
jocular, "to prove what you have been hinting; it is a great shame. 
It's so easy to speak against men, to call them injudicious, extravagant, 
and so on. You are the only person — " "Well, well, I know it, I 
know it," said Sheffield; "we're only canonizing you, and I am the 
devil's advocate." 

Charles wanted to hear something about Wilhs; so he turned the 
current of White's thoughts, by coming up and asking him, whether 
there was any truth in the report he had heard from Vincent several 
weeks before; had White heard from liim lately? White knew very 
little about him definitely, and was not able to say whether the report 
was true or not. So far was certain, that he had returned from 
abroad, and was living at home. Thus he had not committed himself 
to the Church of Rome, whether as a theological student or as a 
novice; but he could not say more. Yes, he had heard one thing 
more; and the subject of a letter which he had received from him 
corroborated it — that he was very strong on the point that Romanism 
and Anghcanism were two religions; that you could not amalgamate 
them; that you must be Roman or Anghcan, but could not be Anglo- 
Roman or Anglo-Catholic. "This is what a friend told me. In his 
letter to myself," White continued, "I don't know quite what he 
meant, but he spoke a good deal of the necessity of faith in order to 
be a Catholic. He said no one should go over merely because he 
thought he should like it better; that he had found out by experience 
that no one could live on sentiment; that the whole system of worship 
in the Romish Church was different from what it is in our own; nay, 
the very idea of worsliip, the idea of prayers; that the doctrine of 
intention itself, viewed in all its parts, constituted a new religion. He 
did not speak of himself defmitely, but he said generally that all this 
might be a great discouragement to a convert, and throw him back. 
On the whole, the tone of his letter was like a person disappointed, 
and who might be reclaimed; at least, so I thought." "He is a wiser, 
even if he is a sadder man," said Charles; "I did not know he had so 
much in him. There is more reflection in all this than so excitable a 
person, as he seemed to me, is capable of exercising. At the same 
time there is nothing in all this to prove that he is sorry for what 
he has done." "I have granted this," said White; "still the effect of 


dlvu^^ ^^w 



the letter was to keep people back from following Kim, by putting 
obstacles in their way; and then we must couple tliis with the fact 
of his going home." Charles thought a while, "Vincent's testi- 
mony," he said, "is either a mere exaggeration or a confirmation of 
what you have told me, according as it is independent or not." 
Then he said to himself, "White too has more in him than I thought; 
he really has spoken about Willis very sensibly: what has come to 

The paths soon divided; and while the Chalton pair took the right 
hand, Carlton and his pupils turned to the left. Soon Carlton parted 
from the two friends, and they reached their cottage just in time to see 
the setting sun. 


A FEW days after, Carlton, Sheffield, and Reding were talking 
together after dinner out of doors about White. "How he is altered," 
said Charles, "since I first knew him!" "Altered!" cried Sheffield, 
"he was a playful kitten once, and now he is one of the dullest old 
tabbies I ever came across." "Altered for the better," said Charles; 
"he has now a steady sensible way of talking; but he was not a very 
wise person two years ago; he is reading, too, really hard." "He has 
some reason," said Sheffield, "for he is sadly behindhand; but there is 
another cause of his steadiness, which perhaps you know." "I! no 
indeed," answered Charles. "I thought of course you knew it," said 
Sheffield; "you don't mean to say you have not heard that he is 
engaged to some Oxford girl?" "Engaged!" cried Charles, "how 
absurd!" "I don't see that at all, my dear Reding," said Carlton. 
"It's not as if he could not afford it; he has a good living waiting for 
him; and, moreover, he is thus losing no time, which is a great thing 
in life. Much time is often lost. Wliite will soon find himself settled 
in every sense of the word, in mind, in life, in occupation." 

Charles said that there was one thing which could not help surpris- 
ing him, namely, that when White first came up, he was so strong in 
his advocacy of clerical celibacy. Carlton and Sheffield Luighod. 
"And do you think," said the former, "that a youtli of eighteen can 
have an opinion on such a subject, or knows himself well enough to 



make a resolution in his own case? Do you really think it fair to hold 
a man committed to all the random opinions and extravagant sayings 
into which he was betrayed when he first left school?" "He had read 
some ultra-book or other," said Sheffield, "or seen some beautiful 
nun sculptured on a chancel-screen, and was carried away by romance 
— as others have been and are." "Don't you suppose," said Carlton, 
"that those good fellows, who now are so full of 'sacerdotal purity,' 
'angelical blessedness,' and so on, will one and all be married by this 
time ten years?" "I'll take a bet of it," said Sheffield: "one will give in 
early, one late, but there is a time destined for all. Pass some ten or 
twelve years, as Carlton says, and wc shall find A. B. on a curacy 
the happy father often children; CD. wearing on a long courtship 
till a living falls; E. F. in his honeymoon; G. H. lately presented by 
Mrs. H. with twins; I. K. full of joy, just accepted; L. M. may 
remain what Gibbon calls 'a column in the midst of ruins,' and 
a very tottering column too." "Do you really think," said Charles, 
"that people mean so little what they say?" "You take matters too 
seriously, Reding," answered Carlton; "who does not change his 
opinions between twenty and thirty? A_young man enters life with 
his father's or tutor's views; he changes them for liis own. The more 
modest and diffident he is, the more faith he has, so much the longer 
does he speak the words of others; but the force of circumstances, 
or the vigour of his mind, infallibly obliges him at last to have a 
mind of his own; that is, if he is good for any thing." "But I suspect," 
said Reding, "that the last generation, whether of fathers or of tutors, 
had no very exalted ideas of clerical celibacy." "Accidents often 
clothe us with opinions which we wear for a time," said Carlton. 
"Well, I honour people who wear their family suit; I don't honour 
those at all who begin with foreign fashions and then abandon 
them." "A few years more of life," said Carlton smiling, "will 
make your judgments kinder." "I don't like talkers," continued 
Charles: "I don't think I ever shall; I hope not." "I know better 
what's at the bottom of it," said Sheffield; "but I can't stay; I must 
go and read; Reding is too fond of a gossip." "Who talks so much 
as you, Sheffield?" said Charles. "But I talk fast when I talk," 
answered he, "and get through a great deal of work; then I give 
over: but you prose, and muse, and sigh, and prose again." And 
so he left them. 

"What does he mean?" asked Carlton. Charles slightly coloured 


LOSS AND GA»., /.v/l-v/ /^ (^ r 'I / / 

and laughed: "You arc a man I say things to, I don t to others^ he a _y^^ 
made answer; "as to Sheffield, he fancies he has found it out o£^-^^^ j 

himself." Carlton looked round at him sharply and curiously. "I am i^p^^--'^^^''^-'^ 
ashamed of myself," said Charles, laughing and looking confused: 
"I have made you think that I have something important to tell, but 
really I have nothing at all." "Well, out with it," said Carlton. 
"Why, to tell the truth, — no, really, it is too absurd. I have made a 
fool of myself." He turned away, then turned back, and resumed, 
"Why, it was only this, that Sheffield fancies I have some sneaking 
kindness for . . . celibacy myself " "Kindness for what?" said Carlton. 
"Kindness for celibacy." There was a pause, and Carlton's face some- 
what changed. "Oh, my dear good fellow," he said, kin dly, "so 
you are one of them; but it will go off." "Perhaps it will," said 
CKarles: "oh, I am laying no stress upon it. It was Sheffield who has 
made' me mention it." A real difference of mind and view had 
evidently been struck upon by two friends, very congenial and very 
fond of each other. There was a pause for a few seconds. 

"You are so sensible a fellow, Reding," said Carlton, "it surprises 
me that you should take up this notion." "It's no new notion taken 
up," answered Charles; "you will smile, but I had it when a boy at 
school, and I have ever since fancied that I^iould never marry. Not 
that the feeling has never intermitted, but it is the habit of my mind. 
My general thoughts run in that one way, that I shall never marry. 
If I did, I should dread Thalaba's punishment." Carlton put his hand 
on Reding's shoulder, and gently shook him to and fro; "Well, it 
surprises me," he said; then, after a pause, "I have been accustomed to 
think both celibacy and marriage good in their way. In the Church 
of Rome great good, I sec, comes of celibacy; but, depend on it, my 
dear Reding, you are making a great blunder, if you are for introduc- 
ing celibacy into the Anglican Church." "There's nothing against it 
in Prayer-book or Articles," said Charles. "Perhaps not; but the 
whole genius, structure, working of our Church goes the other way. 
For instance, we have no monasteries to relieve the poor; and if we 
had, I suspect, as things are, a parson's wife would, in practical sub- 
stantial usefulness, be infinitely superior to all the monks that were 
ever shaven. I declare, I think the Bishop of Ipswich is almost justified 
in giving out that none but married men have a chance of preferment 
from him; nay, the Bishop of Abingdon, who makes a rule of bestow- 
ing his best livings as marriage-portions to the most virtuous young 



ladies in his diocese." Carlton spoke with more energy than was 
usual with liiin. 

Charles answered, that he was not looking to the expediency or 
feasibihty of the thing, but at what seemed to him best in itself, and 
what he could not help admiring. *'I said notliing about the celibacy 
of clergy," he observed, "but of cehbacy generally." "Cehbacy 
has no place in our idea or our system of religion, depend on it," said 
^^tHton. "It is notliing to the purpose, whether there is any tiling 
in the Articles against it; it is not a question about formal enactments, 
but whether the genius of Anglicanism is not utterly at variance with 
it. The experience of three hundred years is surely abundant for our 
purpose; if we don't know what our rehgion is in that time, what time 
will be long enough? There are forms of religion which have not 
lasted so long from first to last. Now enumerate the cases of celibacy 
for celibacy's sake in that time, and what will be the sum total of 
them? Some instances there are; but even Hammond, who died 
unmarried, was going to marry when his mother wished it. On the 
other hand, if you look out for types of our Church, can you fmd 
truer than the married excellence of Hooker the profound, Taylor 
the devotional, and Bull the polemical. The very first Reformed 
prunate is married; in Pole and Parker, the two systems, Roman and 
Anglican, come into strong contrast." "Well, it seems to me as 
much a yoke of bondage," said Charles, "to compel marriage as to 
compel celibacy, and that is what you are really driving at. You are 
telling me that any one is a black sheep who does not marry." "Not 
a very practical difficulty to you at this moment," said Carlton; "no 
one is asking you to go about on Coelebs' mission just now, with 
Aristotle in hand and the class-list in view." "Well, excuse me," said 
Charles, "if I have said any thing very foolish; you don't suppose I 
argue on such subjects with others." 


They had by this time strolled as far as Carlton's lodging, where the 
books happened to be on which Charles was at that time more 
immediately employed; and they took two or three turns under some 
fme beeches which stood in front of the house, before entering it. 



"Tell mc, Reding," said Carlton, "for really I don't understand, 
what are your reasons for admiring what, in truth, is siniply an 
unnatural state." "Don't let us talk more, my dear Carlton," an- 
swered Reding; "I shall go on making a fool of myself. Let well 
alone, or bad alone, pray do." It was evident that there was some 
strong feeling irritating him inwardly; the manner and words were 
too serious for the occasion. Carlton, too, felt strongly upon what 
seemed at first sight a very secondary question, or he would have let 
it alone, as Charles asked him. "No; as we are on the subject, let me 
get at your view," said he: "it was said in the beginning, 'Increase and 
multiply;' therefore celibacy is unnatural." "Supernatural," said 
Charles, smiling. "Is not that a word without an idea?" asked 
Carlton. "We are taught by Butler that there is an analogy between 
nature and grace; else you might parallel paganism to nature, and 
where paganism is contrary to nature, say that it is supernatural. 
The Wesleyan convulsions are preternatural; why not supernatural?" 
"I really think that our divines, or at least some of them, are on my 
side here," said Charles — "Jeremy Taylor, I believe." "You have 
not told me what you mean by supernatural," said Carlton; "I want 
to get at what you think, you know." "It seems to me," said Charles, 
"that Christianity, being the perfection of nature, is both hke it and 
unlike it;— like it, where it is the same or as much as nature; unhke it, 
where it is as much and more. I mean by supernatural the perfection 
of nature." "Give me an instance," said Carlton. "Why consider, 
Carlton; our Lord says, 'Ye have heard that it has been said of old 
time, — but / say unto you;' that contrast denotes the more perfect 
way, or the gospel. ... He came, not to destroy, but to fulfil the law. 
... I can't recollect of a sudden; oh, for instance, this is a case in 
point; he abolished the permission which had been given to the Jews 
because of the hardness of their hearts." "Not quite in point," said 
Carlton, "for the Jew^s, in their divorces, had fallen hclow nature. 
'Let not man put asunder,' was the rule in paradise." "Still, surely the 
idea of an Apostle, unmarried, pure, in fast and nakedness, and at 
length a martyr, is a liigher idea than that of one of the old Israelites, 
sitting under his vine and fig-tree, full of temporal goods, and sur- 
rounded by sons and grandsons. I am not derogating from Gideon 
or Caleb; I am adding to St. Paul." "St. Paul's is a very particular 
case," said Carlton. — "But he himself lays down the general maxim, 
that it is 'good' for a man to continue as he was." — "There wc come 


to a question of criticism, what 'good' means; I may think it means 
'expedient,' and what he says about 'the present distress' confirms it." 
— "Well, I won't go to criticism," said Charles: "take the text, 'in sin 
hath my mother conceived me.' Do not these words shew that, over 
and above the doctrine of original sin, there is (to say the least) great 
risk of marriage leading to sin in married people?" "My dear Red- 
ing," said Carlton, astonished, "you are running into Gnosticism." 
"Not knowingly or willingly," answered Charles; "but understand 
what I mean. It's not a subject I can talk about; but it seems to me, 
without of course saying that married persons must sin (which would 
be Gnosticism), that there is a danger of sin. But don't let me say 
more on this point." 

"Well," said Carlton, after tliinking awhile, "/ have been accus- 
tomed to consider Christianity as the perfection of man as a whole, 
body, soul, and spirit. Don't misunderstand me. Pantheists say body 
and intellect, leaving out the moral principle; but I say spirit as well 
as mind. Spirit, or the principle of religious faith or obedience, 
should be the master principle, the hegcmonicon. To this both intellect 
and body are subservient; but as this supremacy does not imply the 
ill-usage, the bondage of the intellect, neither does it of the body. 
Both should be well treated." — "Well, I think, on the contrary, it 
does imply in one sense the bondage of intellect and body too. What 
is faith but the submission of the intellect? and as 'every liigh thought 
is brought into captivity,' so are we expressly told to bring the body 
into subjection too. They are both well treated, when they are 
treated so as to be made fit instruments of the sovereign principle." 
"That is what I call unnatural," said Carlton. "And it is what I mean 
by supernatural," answered Reding, getting a little too earnest. 
"How is it supernatural, or adding to nature, to destroy a part of it?" 
asked Carlton. Charles was puzzled. It was a way, he said, towards 
perfection; but he thought that perfection came after death, not here. 
Our nature could not be perfect with a corruptible body; the body 
was treated now as a body of death. "Well, Reding," answered 
Carlton "you make Christianity a very different religion from what 
our Church considers it, I really think;" and he paused awhile. 

"Look here," he proceeded; "how can we rejoice in Christ, as 
having been redeemed by Him, if we are in this sort of gloomy 
penitential state? How much is said in St. Paul about peace, thanks- 
giving, assurance, comfort, and the like! Old things are passed away; 



the Jewish Law is destroyed; pardon and peace are come; that is the 
gospel." "Don't you think, then," said Charles, "that we should 
grieve for the sins into which we are daily betrayed, and for the more 
serious offences which from time to time we may have committed?" 
"Certainly; we do so in Morning and Evening Prayer, and in the 
Communion Service." "Well, but supposing a youth, as is so often 
the case, has neglected religion altogether, and has a whole load of 
sins, and very heinous ones, all upon him, — do you think that, when 
he turns over a new leaf, and comes to Communion, he is, on saying 
the Confession, (saying it with that contrition with which such 
persons ought to say it,) pardoned at once, and has nothing more to 
fear about his past sins?" "I should say, 'Yes,' " answered Carlton. 
"Really," said Charles thoughtfully. "Of course," said Carlton, "I 
suppose him truly sorry or penitent; whether he is so or not, his 
future life will shew." "Well, somehow I cannot master this idea," 
said Charles; "I think most serious persons, even for a little sin, would 
go on fidgeting themselves, and not suppose they gained pardon 
directly they asked for it." "Certainly" answered Carlton; "but God 
pardons those who do not pardon themselves." "That is," said 
Charles, "who doti't at once feel peace, assurance, and comfort; who 
dont feel the perfect joy of the Gospel." "Such persons grieve, but 
rejoice too," said Carlton. "But tell me, Carlton," said Reding; "is, 
or is not, their not forgiving themselves, their sorrow and trouble, 
pleasing to God?" "Surely." "Thus a certain self-infliction for sin 
committed is pleasing to Him; and, if so, how does it matter whether 
it is inflicted on mind or body?" "It is not properly a self-infliction," 
answered Carlton; "self-infliction implies intention; grief at sin is 
something spontaneous. When you afflict yourself on purpose, then 
at once you pass from pure Christianity." "Well," said Charles, 
"I certainly fancied that fasting, abstinence, labours, celibacy, might 
be taken as a make-up for sin. It is not a very far-fetched idea. You 
recollect Dr. Johnson's standing in the rain in the market-place at 
Lichfield when a man, as a penance for some disobedience to his 
father when a boy." "But, my dear Reding," said Carlton, "let me 
bring you back to what you said originally, and to my answer to 
you, which what you now say only makes more apposite. You 
began by saying that celibacy was a perfection of nature, now ^■ou 
make it a penance; first it is good and glorious, next it is a medicine 
and punishment." "Perhaps our highest perfection here is penance,'' 


r^MfOM-^-rUj^^ f^^^t^or.^ 


said Charles; "but I don't know; I don't profess to have clear ideas 
upon the subject. I have talked more than I like. Let us at length 
give over." 

They did, in consequence, pass to other subjects connected with 
Charles's reading; then they entered the house, and set-to upon 
Polybius: but it could not be denied that for the rest of the day 
Carlton's manner was not quite his own, as if something had annoyed 
him. Next morning he was as usual. 


I t is impossible to stop the growth of the mind. Here was Charles 
:vyith his thoughts turned away from religious controversy for two 
years, yet with his religious views progressing, unknown to himself, 
the whole time. It could not have been otherwise, if he was to live 
a religious life at all. If he was to worship and obey his Creator, 
intellectual acts, conclusions, and judgments, must accompany that 
worship and obedience. He might not reahse his ov/n behef till 
questions had been put to him; but then a single discussion with a 
friend, such as the above with Carlton, would bring out what he 
really did hold to his own apprehension — would ascertain for him the 
limits of each opinion as he held it, and the inter-relations of opinion 
with opinion. He had not yet given names to these opinions, much 
less had they taken a theological form; nor could they, under his 
circumstances, be expressed in theological language; but here he was, 
a young man of twenty-two, professing in an hour's conversation 
with a friend, what really were the Catholic doctrines and usages, of 
penance, purgatory, counsels of perfection, mortification of self, and 
'clericaLceUbacy. No wonder that all this aimoyed Carlton, though 
he no more than Charles perceived that all tliis Catholicism did in 
fact lie hid under liis professions; but he felt in what Reding put out 
the presence of sometliing, as he expressed it, "very unlike the Church 
of England;" something new and unpleasant to him, and withal 
sometliing wliich had a body in it, which had momentum, which 
could not be passed over as a vague sudden sound or transitory cloud, 
but which had much behind it wliich made itself felt, which struck 



And here we see what is meant when a person says that the Cathohc 
system comes home to his mind, fulfils his ideas of religion, satisfies 
his sympathies, and the like; and thereupon becomes a Catholic. 
Such a person is often said to go by private judgment, to be choosing 
his religion by his own standard of what a religion ought to be. 
Now it need not be denied tliatjthose who arc external to the Church 
niust begin wit|i private judgment^ they use it in order ultimately 
to supersede it; as a man out of doors uses a lamp in a dark night, and 
puts it out when he gets home. What would be thought of his 
bringing it into his drawing-room? what would the goodly company 
there assembled before a genial hearth and under glittering chandeliers, 
the bright ladies and the well-dressed gentlemen, say to him if he 
came in with a greatcoat on his back, a hat on his head, an umbrella 
under his arm, and a large stable-lantern in his hand? Yet what would 
be thought, on the other hand, if he precipitated himself into the 
inhospitable night and the war of the elements in his ball-dress? 
"When the king came in to see the guests, he saw a man who had 
not on a wedding-garment:" he saw a man who determined to live 
in the Church as he had lived out of it, who would not use his 
privileges, who would not exchange reason for faith, who would not 
accommodate his thoughts and doings to the glorious scene wliich 
surrounded him, who was groping for the hidden treasure and 
digging for the pearl of price in the high, lustrous, all-jewcllcd 
Temple of the Lord of Hosts; who shut his eyes and speculated, when 
he might open them and see. Tlicre is no absurdit)^ then, or in- 
consistency in a person first using his private judgment, and then 
denouncing its use. Circumstances change duties. 
" But still, aftej^all, the person in question does not, strictly speaking, 
judge of the external system presented to him by his private ideas, 
but he brings in the dicta of that system to confirm and justify certain 

^ private judgments and personal feelings and habits already existing. 
Charles, for instance, felt a difficulty in determining how and when 

t,, the sins of a Christian are forgiven; he had a great notion that 

celibacy was better than married life. He was not the first person in 
the Church of England who had had such thoughts; to numbers, 
doubtless, before him they had occurred; but these numbers had 
looked abroad, and seen nothing around them to justify what they 
felt, and their feelings had, in consequence, either festered within 
them, or withered away. But when a man, thus constituted within, 

N — P 225 


falls under the shadow of Cathohcism without, then that mighty 
Creed at once produces an influence upon him. He sees that it 
justifies his thoughts, explains his feelings; he understands that it 
numbers, corrects, harmonises, completes them; and he is led to 
ask what is the authority of this foreign teaching; and then, when he 
fmds it is what was once received in England from north to south, 
in England from the very time that Christianity was introduced 
here; that as far as historical records go, Christianity and Catholicity 
are synonymous; that it is still the faith of the largest section of the 
Christian world; and that the faith of his own country is held no 
where but within her own hmits and those of her own colonies; nay 
further, that it is very difficult to say what faith she has, or that she 
has any, — then he submits himself to the Catholic Church, not by a 
process of criticism, but as a pupil to a teacher. 

In saying this, of course it is not denied, on the one hand, that there 
may be persons who come to the Cathohc Church on imperfect 
motives or in a wrong way; who choose it by criticism, and who, 
unsubdued by its majesty and its grace, go on criticising when they 
are in it; and who, if they persist and do not learn humility, may 
criticise themselves out of it again. Nor is it denied, on the other 
hand, that some who are not Catholics may possibly choose (for 
instance) Methodism, in the above religious way, viz. because it 
confirms and justifies the inward feelings of their hearts. This is 
certainly possible in idea; yet what there is venerable, awful, super- 
human in theWesleyan Conference to persuade one to take it as a 
prophet, is a perplexing problem; and moreover, the matter of fact 
we conceive to lie the other way, viz. that Wesleyans and other 
Dissenters put themselves above their system, not below it; and 
though they may in bodily position "sit under" their preacher, yet 
in the position of their souls and spirits, mmds and judgments, 
they are exalted high above him. 

But to return to the subject of our narrative. What a mystery is 
the soul of man! Here was Charles, busy in Aristotle and Euripides, 
Thucydides and Lucretius, yet all the while growing towards the 
Church, "to the measure of the stature of the fullness of Christ." 
His mother had said to him that he could not escape his destiny; it 
was true, though it was to be fulfilled in a way which she, affectionate 
heart, could not compass, did not dream of He could not escape 
the destiny of being one of the elect of God; he could not escape that 



destiny which the grace of his Redeemer had stamped on his soul in 
baptism, which his good angel had seen written there, and had done 
his zealous part to keep inviolate and bright, which his own co-opera- 
tion with the influences of Heaven had confirmed and secured. He 
could not escape the destiny, in due time, in God's time — (though it 
might be long, though angels might be anxious, though the Church 
might plead, as if defrauded of her promised increase of a stranger, 
yet a son; yet come it must, it was written in heaven, and the slow 
wheels of time each hour brought it nearer) — he could not ultimately 
escape his destiny of becoming a Catholic. And even before that 
blessed hour, as an opening flov/er scatters sweets, so the strange 
unknown odour, pleasing to some-, odious to others, went abroad 
from him upon the winds, and made them marvel what could be 
near them, and made them look curiously and anxiously at him, while 
he was unconscious of his own condition. Let us be patient with 
him, as his Maker is patient, and bear that he should do a work 
slowly, which he will do well. 

Alas ! while Charles had been growing one way, Sheffield had been 
growing another; and what that growth had been, will appear from 
a conversation which took place between the two friends, and which 
shall be related in the following chapter. 


Carlton had opened the small church he was serving, for Saints'- 
day services during the Long Vacation; and not being in the way 
to have any congregation, and the church at Horslcy being closed 
except on Sundays, he had asked his two pupils to walk over with 
him on St. Matthew's-day, wliich, as the season was fine, and the 
walk far from a dull one, they were very glad to do. When church 
was over, Carlton had to attend a sick-call which la)' still further 
from Horsley, and the two young men walked back together. 

"I did not know Carlton was so much of a party man," said 
Sheffield; "did not his reading the Athanasian Creed strike you?" 
"That's no mark of party surely," answered Charles. "To read it on 
days like these, I think, is a mark of party; it's going out of the way." 
Charles did not sec how obeying in so plain a matter the clear 



direction of the Prayer-book could be a party act. "Direction!" said 
Sheffield, "as if the question were not, is that direction now binding? 
the sense, the understanding of the Church of this day determines its 
obligation." "The prima facie view of the matter," said Charles, "is 
that they who do but follow what the Prayer-book enjoins, are of all 
people farthest from being a party." "Not at all," said Sheffield; 
"rigid adherence to old customs surely may be the badge of a party. 
Now consider; ten years ago, before the study of Church-liistory 
was revived, Arianism and Athanasianism either were not thought 
of at all, or if thought of, were considered as questions of words, at 
least as held by most minds — one as good as the other," "I should 
say so too, in one sense," said Charles; "that is, I should hope that 
numbers of persons, for instance the unlearned, who were in Arian 
communities, spoke Arian language, and yet did not mean it. I 
tliink I have heard that some ancient missionary of the Goths or 
Huns was an Arian." "Well, I will speak more precisely," said 
Sheffield; "an Oxford man, some ten years since, was going to 
publish a history of the Nicene Council; and the bookseller proposed 
to him to prefix an engraving of St. Athanasius, which he had found 
in some old volume. He was strongly dissuaded from doing so by 
a brother clergyman, not from any feeling of his own, but because 
'Athanasius was a very unpopular name among us.' " "One 
swallow does not make a spring," said Charles. "This clergyman," 
continued Sheffield, "was a friend of most High-Church writers 
of the day." "Of course," said Reding, "there has always been a 
heterodox school in our Church — I know that well enough — but it 
never has been powerful. Your lax friend was one of them." "I 
believe not, indeed," answered Sheffield; "he lived out of con- 
troversy, was a literary, accomplished person, and a man of piety to 
boot. He did not express any feeling of his own; he did but witness 
to a fact, that the name of Athanasius was unpopular." "So little was 
known about history," said Charles, "this is not surprising. St. 
Athanasius, you know, did not write the Creed called after him. It 
is possible to think him intemperate, without tliinking the Creed 
wrong." "Well, then, again; there's Beatson, Divinity Professor; no 
one will call him in any sense a party man; he was put in by the 
Tories, and never has committed himself to any liberal theories in 
theology. Now, a man who attended his private lectures assures me 
that he told the men, 'D'ye sec,' said he, 'I take it, that the old Church- 



of-England mode of handling the Creed went out with Bull. After 
Locke wrote, the old orthodox phraseology came into disrepute.' " 
"Well, perhaps he meant," said Charles, "that learning died away, 
which was the case. The old theological language is plainly a learned 
language; when fathers and schoolmen were not read, of course it 
would be in abeyance; when they were read again, it has revived." 
"No, no," answered Sheffield, "he said much more on another 
occasion. Speaking of creeds, and the like, 'I hold,* he said, 'that 
the majority of the educated laity of our Church are Sabellians.' " 
Charles was silent, and hardly knew what reply to make. Sheffield 
went on: "I was present some years ago, when I was quite a 
boy, when a sort of tutor of mine was talking to one of the most 
learned and orthodox divines of the day, a man whose name has 
never been associated with party, and the near relation and comiexion 
of high dignitaries, about a plan of his own for writing a history of 
the Councils. This good and able man hstened with politeness, 
applauded the project; then added, in a laugliing way, 'You know 
you have chosen just the dullest subject in Church-history.' Now the 
Councils begin with the Nicene Creed, and embrace nearly all 
doctrinal subjects whatever." "My dear Sheffield," said Charles, 
"you have fallen in with a particular set or party of men yourself; 
very respectable good men, I don't doubt, but no fair specimens of 
the whole Church." "I don't bring them as authorities," answered 
Sheffield, "but as witnesses." "Still," said Charles, "I know perfectly 
well, that there was a controversy at the end of last century between 
Bishop Horsley and others, in which he brought out distinctly one 
part at least of the Athanasian doctrines." "His controversy was not 
a defence of the Athanasian Creed, I know well," said Sheffield; "for 
the subject came into Upton's Article-lecture; it was with Priestley; 
but whatever it was, divines would only think it all very fine, just 
as his Sermons on Prophecy. It is another question whether they 
would know the worth either of the one or of the other. The)' receive 
the scholastic terms about the Trinity, just as they receive the doctrine 
that the Pope is Antichrist. When Horsley says the latter, or some- 
thing of the kind, good old clergymen say, 'Certainh', certainl)', oh 
yes, it's the old Church-of-England doctrine,' thinking it right, 
indeed, to be maintained, but not caring themselves to maintain it, 
or at most professing it just when mentioned, but not really thinking 
about it from one year's end to the other. And so with regard to the 


LOSS AND GAIN '^^^^^) 

doctrine of the Trinity, they say, 'the great Horsley,' 'the powerful 
Horsley;' they don't indeed dispute, but they don't care about his 
doctrine; they look on him as a doughty champion, armed cap-a-pie, 
who has put down dissent, who has cut off the head of some impudent 
non-protectionist, or insane chartist; or of some religious innovator, 
who, under colour of theology, had run a tilt against tithes and 

"I can't think so badly of our present divines," said Charles; "I 
know that in this very place there are various orthodox writers, 
whom no one would call party men." "Stop," said Sheffield, 
"understand me, I was not speaking against them. I was but saying 
that these anti-Athanasian views were not unfrequent. I have been 
in the way of hearing a good deal on the subject at my private tutor's, 
and have kept my eyes about me since I have been here. The Bishop 
of Derby was a friend of Sheen's (my private tutor), and was pro- 
moted when I was with him; and Sheen told me that he wrote to 
him on that occasion, 'What shall I read? I don't know any thing 
of theology.' I rather tliink he was recommended, or proposed, to 
read Scott's Bible." "It's easy to bring instances," said Charles, 
"when you have all your own way; what you say is evidently all an 
ex parte statement." "Take again Shipton, who died lately," con- 
tinued Sheffield; "what a high position he held in the Church; yet 
it is perfectly well known that he thought it a mistake to use the word 
'Person' in the doctrine of the Trinity. What makes this stronger is, 
that he was so very severe on clergymen (Tractarians, for instance) 
who evade the sense of the Articles. Now he was a singularly honest, 
straightforward man; he despised money; he cared nothing for public 
opinion; yet he was a Sabellian. Would he have eaten the bread of 
the Church, as it is called, for a day, unless he had felt that his opinions 
were not inconsistent with his profession as Dean of Bath, and 
Prebendary of Dorchester? Is it not plain that he considered the 
practice of the Church to have modified, to have re-intcrprcted its 
documents?" "Why," said Charles, "the practice of the Church 
cannot make black white; or, if a sentence means yes, make it mean 
no. I won't deny that all words are so vague and uncertain in their 
sense, and so uniformly need a comment, that the teaching of the 
day has great influence in determining their sense; but the question 
is, whether the counter-teaching of every dean, every prebendary, 
every clergyman, every bishop in the whole Church could make the 



Atlianasian Creed Sabellian; I think not." "Certainly not," answered 
Sheffield; "but the clergymen I speak of simply say that they arc not 
bound to the details of the Creed, only to the great outline that there 
is a Trinity." "Great outline !" said Charles, "what stuff! an Unitarian 
would not deny that. He, of course, believes in Father, Son, and 
Holy Spirit: though he thinks the Son a creature, and the Spirit an 
influence." "Well, I don't deny," said Sheffield, "that if Dean 
Shipton was a sound member of the Church, Dr. Priestley might 
have been also. But my doubt is, whether, if the Tractarian school 
had not risen, Priestley might not have been, had he lived to this 
time, I will not say a positively sound member, but sound enough 
for preferment." "/fthe Tractarian school had not risen! that is but 
saying if our Church was other than it is. What is that school but a 
birth, an offspring of the Church? and if the Church had not given 
birth to one party of men for its defence, it would have given birth 
to another." "No, no," said Sheffield; "I assure you the old school 
of doctrine was all but run out when they began; and I declare I 
wish they had let things alone. There was the doctrine of the Aposto- 
lical Succession; a few good old men were its sole remaining pro- 
fessors in the Church; and a great personage, on one occasion, quite 
scoffed at their persisting to hold it. He maintained the doctrine went 
out with the non-jurors. 'You are so few,' he said, 'that we can 
count you.' " 

Charles was not pleased with the subject, on various accounts. He 
did not like what seemed to him an attack of Sheffield's upon the 
Church of England; and, besides, he began to feel uncomfortable 
misgivings and doubts whether that attack was not well founded, to 
which he did not like to be exposed. Accordingly he kept silence, 
and, after a short interval, attempted to change the subject; but 
Sheffield's hand was in, and he would not be baulked; so he presently 
began again, "I have been speaking," he said, "of the liberal section 
of our Church. There are four parties in the Church. Of these the 
old Tory, or country party, which is out and out the largest, has no 
opinion at all, but merely takes up the theology or non-theology of 
the day, and cannot properly be said to 'hold' what the Creed calls 
'the Catholic faith.' It does not deny it; it may not knowingly dis- 
believe it; but it gives no signs of actually holding it beyond the fiict 
that it treats it with respect. I will venture to say, that not a country 
parson of them, from year's end to year's end, makes once a year 



what the CathoHcs call 'an act of faith' in that special and very distinc- 
tive mystery, contained in the clauses of the Athanasian Creed." 
Then, seeing Charles looked rather hurt, he added, "I am not speaking 
of any particular clergyman here or there, but of the great majority 
of them. After the Tory party comes the Liberal; wliich also dislikes 
the Athanasian Creed, as I have said. Thirdly, as to the Evangelical; 
I know you have one of the Nos. of the 'Tracts for the Times' about 
objective faith. Now that tract seems to prove that the Evangehcal 
party is implicitly Sabellian, and is tending to avow that behef. This 
too has been already the actual course of Evangelical doctrine both on 
the Continent and in America. The Protestants of Geneva, Holland, 
Ulster, and Boston have all, I believe, become Unitarians, or the like. 
Dr. Adam Clark too, the celebrated Wesleyan, held the distinguishing 
Sabellian tenet, as Doddridge is said to have done before him. All 
this considered, I do think I have made out a good case for my 
original assertion, that at this time of day it is a party thing to go 
out of the way to read the Athanasian Creed." "I don't agree with 
you at all," said Charles; "you say a great deal more than you have 
a warrant to do, and draw sweeping conclusions from slender pre- 
misses. This, at least, is what seems to me. I wish too you would 
not so speak of 'making out a case.' It is as if these things were mere 
topics for disputation. And I don't like your taking the wrong side; 
you are rather fond of doing so." "Reding," answered Sheffield, 
"I speak what I think, and ever will do so. I will be no party man. 
I don't attempt, like Vincent, to unite opposites. He is of all parties, 
I am of none. I think I see pretty well the hollowness of all." "O 
my dear Sheffield," cried Charles in distress, "think what you are 
saying; you don't mean what you say. You are speaking as if you 
thought that belief in the Athanasian Creed was a mere party 
opinion." Sheffield was silent; then he said, "Well, I beg your 
pardon, if I have said any thing to annoy you, or have expressed 
myself intemperately. But surely one has no need to believe what 
so many people either disbelieve or disregard." 

The subject then dropped; and presently Carlton overtook them 
on the farmer's pony, which he had borrowed. 




Reding had for near two years put aside his doubts about the Articles; 
l>i^t it was hkc putting off the payment of a bill — a respite, not a 
deliverance. The two conversations which we have been recording, 
^Bringing him to issue on most important subjects first with one, 
then with another, of two intimate friends, who were bound by the 
Articles as well as he, uncomfortably reminded him of his debt to 
the University and Church; and the nearer approach of his examina- 
tion and degree inflicted on him that the time was coming, when he 
must be prepared to discharge it. 

One day, when he was strolling out with Carlton, towards the end 
of the Vacation, he had been led to speak of the number of religious 
opinions and parties in Oxford, which had so many bad effects, 
making so many talk, so many criticise, and not a few perhaps 
sceptical about truth altogether. Then he said that, evil as it was in 
a place of education, yet he feared it was unavoidable, if Carlton's 
doctrine about parties were correct; for if there was a place where 
differences of religious opinions would shew themselves, it wou^d 
be in a University. "I am far from denying it," said Carlton; "but 
all systems have their defects; no polity, no theology, no ritual is 
perfect. One only came directly and simply from heaven, the 
Jewish; and even that was removed because of its improfitableness. 
This is no derogation from the perfection of Divine revelation, for 
it arises from the subject-matter on and through which it operates." 
There was a pause; then Carlton went on: "It is the fault of most 
young thinkers to be impatient, if they do not fmd perfection in 
every thing; they are 'new brooms.' " Another pause; he went on 
again: "What form of religion is less objectionable than ours? You 
see the inconveniences of your own system, for you experience them; 
you have not felt, and cannot know, those of others," Charles was 
still silent, and went on plucking and chewing leaves from the shrubs 
and bushes through which their path winded. At length he said. 
"I should not like to say it to any one but to you, Carlton; but, do 
you know, I was very uncomfortable about the Articles, going on for 
two years since; I really could not miderstand them, and their histor\- 
makes matters worse. I put the subject from me altogether; but now 
my_exaniinatioii and degree are coming on, I must take it up again." 


-%,xi^J'^- ^l^A^-^'^^'^^''''^ 


"You must have been put into the Article-lecture early," said Carlton. 
"Well, perhaps I was not up to the subject," answered Charles. "I 
didn't mean that," said Carlton; "but as to the thing itself, my dear 
fellow, it happens every day, and especially to thoughtful people like 
yourself. It should not annoy you." "But my fidget is," said Charles, 
"lest my difficulties should return, and I should not be able to remove 
them." "You should take all these things calmly," said Carlton; 
"all things, as I have said, have their difficulties. If you wait till every 
thing is as it should be, or might be conceivably, you will do nothing, 
and will lose life. The moral world is not an open country; it is 
already marked and mapped out; it has its roads. You can't go across 
country; if you attempt a steeple-chase, you will break your neck for 
your pains. Forms^f religion are facts; they have each their history. 
They existed before you were born, and will survive you. You must 
choose, you cannot make." "I know," said Reding, "I can't make 
a religion, nor can I perhaps find one better than my own. I don't 
want to do so; but this is not my difficulty. Take your own image. 
I am jogging along my own road, and lo, a high turnpike, fast 
locked; and my poor pony can't clear it. I don't complain; but 
there's the fact, or at least may be." "The pony must," answered 
Carlton; "or if not, there must be some way about; else what is the 
good of a road? In rehgion all roads have their obstacles; one has 
a strong gate across it, another goes through a bog. Is no one to go 
on? Is religion to be at a dead-lock? Is Christianity to die out? 
Where else will you go? Not surely to Methodism or Plymouth- 
Brotherism. As to the Romish Church, I suspect it has more difficul- 
ties than we have. You must sacrifice your private judgment." "All 
this is very good," answered Charles; "but what is very expedient, 
still may be very impossible. The finest words about the necessity 
of getting home before night-fall will not enable my poor little pony 
to take the gate." "Certainly not," said Carlton; "but if you had a 
command from a benevolent Prince, your own Sovereign and 
Benefactor, to go along the road steadily till evening, and he would 
meet you at the end of your journey, you would be quite sure that 
he who had appointed the end had also assigned the means. And in 
the difficulty in question, you ought to look out for some mode of 
opening the gate, or some gap in the hedge, or some parallel cut, some 
way or other, which would enable you to turn the difficulty." 
Charles said, that somehow he did not like this mode of arguing; 



it seemed dangerous; he did not sec whither it went, where it ended. 
Presently he said abruptly, "Why do you think there arc more 
difficulties in the Church of Rome?" "Clearly there arc," answered 
Carlton; "if the Articles arc a crust, is not Pope Pius's Creed a bone?" 
"I don't know Pope Pius's Creed," said Charles; "I know very little 
about the state of the case, certainly. What does it say?" "Oh, it 
includes infallibility, transubstantiation, saint-worship, and the rest," 
said Carlton; "I suppose you could not quite subscribe these." "It 
depends," answered Charles slowly, "on this, — on what authority 
they came to me." He stopped, and then went on: "Of course I 
could, if they came to mc on the same authority as the doctrine of 
the Blessed Trinity comes. Now, the Articles come on no authority; 
they are the views of persons in the sixteenth century; and it is not 
clear how far they are, or are not, modified by the views of the nine- 
teenth. I am obliged, then, to exercise my own judgment; and I 
candidly declare to you, that my judgment is unequal to so great 
a task. At least, this is what troubles me, whenever the subject rises 
in my mind; for I have put it from me." "Well then," said Carlton, 
"take them on faith.'' "You mean, I suppose," said Charles, "that 
I must consider our Church infallible" Carlton felt the difficulty; 
he answered, "No, but you must act as if it were infallible, from a 
sense of duty." Charles smiled; then he looked grave; he stood still, 
and his eyes fell. "If I am to make a Church infalhble," he said, 
"if I must give up private judgment, if I must act on faith, there is 
a Church which has a greater claim on me than the Church of 
England." "My dear Reding," said Carlton with some emotion, 
<( "where did you get these notions?" "I don't know," answered 
1 Charles; "somebody has said that they were in the air. I have talked 
to no one, except one or two arguments I had with different persons 
in my first year. I have driven the subject from mc; but when I 
once begin, you sec it will out." 

They walked on awhile in silence. "Do you really mean to say," 
asked Carlton at length, "that it is so difficult to understiuid and 
receive the Articles? To me they arc quite clear enough, and speak 
the language of common sense." "Well, they seem to mc," said 
Reding, "sometimes inconsistent with themselves, sometimes with 
the Prayer-book; so that I am suspicious of them; I don't know what 
I am signing when I sign, yet I ought to sign ex aiiimo. A blind 
submission I could make; I cannot make a blind declaration." "Give 



me some instances," said Carlton. "For example," said Charles, 
"they distinctly receive the Lutheran doctrine of justification by 
faith only, which the Prayer-book virtually opposes in every one of 
its Offices. They refer to the Homilies as authority, yet the Homihes 
speak of the books of the Apocrypha as inspired, wliich the Articles 
implicitly deny. The Articles about Ordination are in their spirit 
contrary to the Ordination Service. One Article on the Sacraments 
speaks the doctrine of Melanchthon, another that of Calvin. One 
Article speaks of the Church's authority in controversies of faith, 
yet another makes Scripture the ultimate appeal. These are what 
occur to me at the moment." "Surely many of these are but verbal 
difficulties, at very first glance," said Carlton, "and all may be 
surmounted with a little care." "On the other hand, it has struck 
me," continued Charles, "that the Church of Rome is undeniably 
consistent in her formularies; this is the very charge some of our 
writers make upon her, that she is so systematic. It may be a hard, 
iron system, but it is consistent." Carlton did not wish to interrupt 
him, thinking it best to hear his whole difficulty; so Charles pro- 
ceeded: "When a system is consistent, at least it does not condemn 
itself. Consistency is not truth, but truth is consistency. Now, I am 
not a fit judge whether or not a certain system is true, but I may be 
quite a judge whether it is consistent with itself When an oracle 
equivocates, it carries with it its own condemnation. I almost think 
there is something in Scripture on tliis subject, comparing in this 
respect the pagan and the inspired prophecies. And this has struck 
me too, that St. Paul gives this very account of a heretic, that he is 
'condemned of himself,' bearing his own condemnation on liis face. 
Moreover, I was once in the company of Freeborn (I don't know if 
you are acquainted with him), and others of the Evangehcal party; 
and they shewed plainly, if they were to be trusted, that Luther and 
Melanchthon did not agree together on the prime point of justifica- 
tion by faith; a circumstance which had not come into the Article- 
lecture. Also I have read somewhere, or heard in some sermon, that 
the ancient heretics always were inconsistent, never could state 
plainly their meaning, much less agree together; and thus, whether 
they would or no, could not help giving to the simple a warning of 
their true character, as if by their rattle." 

Charles stopped; presently he continued: "This too has struck me; 
that either there is no prophet of the truth on earth, or the Church 



of Rome is that prophet. That there is a prophet still, or apostle, or 
messenger, or teacher, or whatever he is to be called, seems evident 
by our believing in a visible Church. Now common sense tells us 
what a messenger from God must be; first, he must not contradict 
himself, as I have just been saying. Again, a prophet of God can 
allow of no rival, but denounces all who make a separate claim, as the 
prophets do in Scripture. Now, it is impossible to say whether our 
Church acknowledges or not Lutheranism in Germany, Calvinism 
in Switzerland, the Nestorian and Monophysite bodies in the East. 
Nor does it clearly tell us what view it takes of the Church of Rome. 
The only place where it recognises its existence is in the Homilies, 
and there it speaks of it as Antichrist. Nor has the Greek Church any 
intelligible position in Anglican doctrine. On the other hand, the 
Church of Rome has this prima facie mark of a prophet, that hke a 
prophet in Scripture, it admits no rival, and anathematises all doctrine 
counter to its own. There's another thing. A prophet of God is of 
course at home with his message; he is not helpless and do-nothing 
in the midst of errors and in the war of opinions. He knows what has 
been given him to declare, how far it extends; he can act as an 
umpire; he is equal to emergencies. This again tells in favour of the 
Church of Rome. As age after age comes, she is ever on the alert, 
questions every new comer, sounds the note of alarm, hews down 
strange doctrine, claims and locates and perfects what is new and 
true. The Church of Rome inspires me with confidence; I feel I 
can trust her. It is another thing whether she is true; I am not pre- 
tending now to decide that. But I do not feel the like trust in our 
own Church. I love her more than I trust her. She leaves me without 
faith. Now you see the state of my mind." He fetched a deep sharp 
sigh, as if he had got a load off him. 

"Well," said Carlton, when he had stopped, "this is all very pretty 
theory; whether it holds in matter of fact, is another question. We 
have been accustomed hitherto to tliink Chillingworth right, \\hcn 
he talks of Popes against Popes, Comicils against Councils, and so on. 
Certainly you will not be allowed by Protestant controversialists to 
assume this perfect consistency in Romish doctrine. The truth is, 
you have read very little; and you judge of truth not by ficts, but by 
notions; I mean, you think it enough if a notion hangs together; 
though you disavow it, still, in matter of fict, consistency is truth 
to you. Whether fiicts answer to theories, you cannot tell, and you 



don't inquire. Now I am not well read in the subject, but I know 
enough to be sure that Romanists wUl have more work to prove 
their consistency than you anticipate. For instance, they appeal to 
the Fathers, yet put the Pope above them; they maintain the infalli- 
bility of the Church, and prove it by Scripture, and then they prove 
Scripture by the Church. They think a General Council infallible, 
when, but not before, the Pope has ratified it; Bellarmine, I tliink, 
gives a Ust of General Councils which have erred. And I never have 
been able to make out the Romish doctrine of Indulgences." Charles 
thought over this: then he said, "Perhaps the case is as you say that I 
ought to know the matter of fact more exactly before attempting to 
form a judgment on these subjects; but, my dear Carlton, I protest 
to you, and you may think with what distress I say it, that if the 
Church of Rome is as ambiguous as our own Church, I shall be in 
the way to become a sceptic, on the very ground that I shall have no 
\Competent authority to tell me what to believe. The Ethiopian said. 
How can I know, unless some man do teach me?' and St. Paul says, 
'Faith cometh by hearing.' If no one claims my faith, how can I 
exercise it? At least, I shall run the risk of becoming a Latitudinarian; 
for if I go by Scripture only, certainly there is no creed given us 
in Scripture." "Our business," said Carlton, "is to make the best of 
things, not the worst. Do keep this in mind; be on your guard against 
a strained and morbid view of things. Be cheerful, be natural, and 
all will be easy." "You are always kind and considerate," said 
Charles; "but after all, — I wish I could make you see it, — you have 
not a word to say by way of meeting my original difficulty of sub- 
scription. How am I to leap over the wall? It's nothing to the 
purpose that other communions have their walls also." 

They now neared home, and concluded their walk in silence, 
each being fully occupied with the thoughts which the conversation 
had suggested. 


The Vacation passed away silently and happily. Day succeeded day 
in quiet routine employments, bringing insensible but sure accessions 
to the stock of knowledge and to the intellectual proficiency of both 



our Students. Historians and orators were read for a last time, and 
laid aside; sciences were digested; commentaries were run through; 
and analyses and abstracts completed. It was emphatically a silent 
toil. While others might be steaming from London to Bombay or 
the Havannah, and months in the retrospect might look like years, 
with Reding and Sheffield the week had scarcely begun when it was 
found to be ending; and when October came, and they saw their 
Oxford friends again, at first they thought they had a good deal to 
say to them, but when they tried, they found it did but concern 
minute points of their own reading and personal matters; and they 
were reduced to silence, with the wish to speak. 

The season had changed, and reminded them that Horsley was a 
place for summer sojourn, not a dwelling. There were heavy raw 
fogs hanging about the hills, and storms of wind and rain. The grass 
no longer afforded them a seat; and when they betook themselves 
indoors, it was discovered that the doors and windows did not shut 
close, and that the chimney smoked. Then came those fruits, the 
funeral feast of the year, mulberries and walnuts: the tasteless juiceless 
walnut; the dark mulberry, juicy but severe, and mouldy withal, 
as gathered not from the tree, but from the damp earth. And thus 
that green spot itself weaned them from the love of it. Charles 
looked around him, and rose to depart as a ''conviva satiir" "Edisti 
satis, tenipus abirc" seemed written upon all. The swallows had taken 
leave; the leaves were paling; the hght broke late, and fliiled soon. 
The hopes of spring, the peace and calm of summer, had given place 
to the sad realities of autumn. He was hurrying to the world, who 
had been up on the mount; he had lived without jars, without dis- 
tractions, without disappointments; and he was now to take them as 
his portion. For he was but a child of Adam; Horsley had been but 
a respite; and he had vividly brought before his mcmor)- the sad 
reverse which came upon him two years before — what a happy 
summer — what a forlorn autumn. With these thoughts, he put up 
his books and papers, and turned his face towards St. Saviour's. 

Oxford too was not quite what it had been to him; the freshness of 
his admiration for it was over; he now saw defects where at first all 
was excellent and good; the romance of places and persons had passed 
away. And there were changes too: of his contemporaries, some had 
already taken their degrees and left; others were reading in the 
country; others had gone oti' to other Colleges on fellowships. A 



host of younger faces had sprung up in hall and chapel, and he hardly 
knew their names. Rooms which formerly had been his familiar 
lounge were now tenanted by strangers, who claimed to have that 
right in them which, to his imagination, could only attach to those 
who had possessed them when he himself came into residence. The 
College seemed to have deteriorated; there was a rowing set, which 
had not been there before, a number of boys, and a large proportion 
of snobs. 

But, what was a real trouble to Charles, it got clearer and clearer 
to his apprehension, that his intimacy with Sheffield was not quite 
what it had been. They had indeed passed the Vacation together, 
and saw of each other more than ever; but their sympathies in each 
other were not as strong, they had not the same likings and dislikings; 
in short, they had not such congenial minds as they fancied when they 
were freshmen. There was not so much heart in their conversations, 
and they more easily endured to miss each other's company. They 
were both reading for honours — reading hard; but Sheffield's whole 
heart was in his work, and religion was but a secondary matter to 
him. He had no doubts, difficulties, anxieties, sorrows, which much 
affected him. It was not the certainty of faith which made a sunshine 
in his soul, and dried up the mists of human weakness; rather, he had 
no perceptible need within him of that vision of the Unseen which is 
the Christian's life. He was unblemished in his character, exemplary 
in his conduct; but he was content with what the perishable world 
gave him. Charles's characteristic, perhaps above any thing else, was 
an habitual sense of the Divine Presence; a sense which, of course, 
did not ensure uninterrupted conformity of thought and deed to 
itself, but still there it was — the pillar of the cloud before him and 
guiding him. He felt himself to be God's creature, and responsible 
to Him — God's possession, not his own. He had a great wish to 
succeed in the schools; a thrill came over him when he thought of it; 
but ambition was not his hfe; he could have reconciled himself in a 
few minutes to failure. Thus disposed, the only subjects on which the 
two friends freely talked together were connected with their common 
studies. They read together, examined each other, used and corrected 
each other's papers, and solved each other's difficulties. Perhaps it 
scarcely came home to Sheffield, sharp as he was, that there was any 
flagging of their intimacy. Religious controversy had been the food 
of his active intellect when it was novel; now it had lost its interest, 



and his books took its place. But it was far different with Charles; 
he had felt interest in religious questions for their own sake; and when 
he had deprived himself of the pursuit of them, it had been a self- 
denial. Now then, when they seemed forced on him again, Sheffield 
could not help him, where he most wanted the assistance of a 
friend . 

A still more tangible trial was coming on him. Tlie reader has to 
be told, that there was at that time a system of espionage prosecuted 
by various well-meaning men, who thought it would be doing the 
University a service to point out such of its junior members as were 
what is called papistically inclined. They did not perceive the danger 
such a course involved of disposing young men towards Catholicism, 
by giving them the bad report of it; and of forcing them further, by 
inflicting on them the inconsistencies of their position. Ideas which 
would have lain dormant or dwindled away in their minds, were thus 
fixed, defined, located within them; and the fear of the world's 
censure no longer served to deter, when it had been actually incurred. 
When Charles attended the tea-party at Freeborn's, he was on his 
trial; he was introduced not only into a school, but into an inquisition; 
and since he did not promise to be a subject for spiritual impression, 
he was forthwith a subject for spiritual censure. He became a marked 
man in the circles of Capel Hall and St. Mark's. His acquaintance 
with Willis; the questions he had asked at the Article-lecture; stray 
remarks at ^vine-parties, — were treasured up, and strengthened the 
case against him. One time, on coming into his rooms, he found 
Freeborn, who had entered to pay him a call, prying into his books. 
A volume of sermons, of the school of the day, borrowed of a friend 
for the sake of illustrating Aristotle, lay on his table; and in his book- 
shelves one of the more philosophical of the "Tracts for the Tmies" 
was stuck in between a Herman de Metris and a Thucydides. Another 
day his bed-room door was open, and No. 2 of the tea-party saw one 
of Overbeck's sacred prints pinned up against the wall. 

Facts like these were, in most cases, related to the Head of the 
hause to which a young man belonged; who, as a vigilant guardian 
of the purity of his undergraduates' Protestantism, received the in- 
formation with thankfulness, and perhaps asked the informer to 
jtnner. It cannot be denied that in some cases this course of action 
succeeded in frightening and sobering the parties towards whom 
it was directed. White was thus reclaimed to be a devoted son and 
N— Q ^ 241 


useful minister of the Church of England; but it was a kill-or-cure 
remedy, and not likely to answer with the more noble or the more 
;^ • able minds. What effect it had upon Charles, or whether any, must 
^ be determined by the sequel; here it will suffice to relate interviews 
which took place between him and the Principal and Vice-Principal 
of his College in consequence of it. 


When Reding presented himself to the Vice-Principal, the Rev. 
Joshua Jennings, to ask for leave to reside in lodgings for the two 
terms previous to his examination, he was met with a courteous but 
decisive refusal. It took him altogether by surprise; he had considered 
the request as a mere matter of form. He sat half a minute silent, and 
then rose to take his departure. The colour came into his cheek; it 
was a repulse inflicted only on idle, dissolute men, who could not be 
trusted beyond the eye of the Dean of the College. 

The Vice-Principal seemed to expect him to ask the reason of his 
proceeding; as Charles, in his confusion, did not seem likely to do so, 
he condescended to open the conversation. It was not meant as any 
reflection, he said, on Mr. Reding's moral conduct; he had ever been 
a well-conducted young man, and had quite borne out the character 
with which he had come from school; but there were duties to be 
observed towards the community, and its undergraduate portion 
must be protected from the contagion of principles which were too 
rife at the moment. Charles was, if possible, still more surprised, and 
suggested that there must be some misunderstanding, if he had been 
represented to the Vice-Principal as connected with any so-called 
party in the place. "You don't mean to deny that there is a party, 
Mr. Reding," answered the College authority, "by that form of 
expression?" He was a lean pale person, with a large hook-nose and 
spectacles; and seemed, though a liberal in creed, to be really a 
nursling of that early age, when Anabaptists fed the fires of Smithfield. 
From his years, practised talent, and position, he was well able to 
brow-beat an unhappy juvenile who incurred his displeasure; and he 
frequently forgot what the poet calls the "villanousness" of such 
displays of power. Charles did not know how to answer his question; 



f/J^^' 7-^ 

and on his silence it was repeated. At length he said that really he 
was not in a condition to speak against any one; and if he spoke of 
a so-called party, it was that he might not seem disrespectful to some 
who might be better men than himself. Mr. Vice was silent, but not 
from being satisfied. "What would you call a party, Mr. Reding? 
w;hat would be your definition of it?" Charles paused to think; at 
last he said: "Persons who band together on their own authority for 
the maintenance of views of their own." "And will you say that 
these gentlemen have not views of their own?" asked Mr. Jennings. 
Charles assented. 

"What is your view of the Thirty-nine Articles?" said the Vice- 
Principal, abruptly. "My view!" thought Charles; "what can he 
mean? my view of the Articles! like my opinion of things in general. 
Does he mean my 'view,' whether they are English or Latin, long or 
short, good or bad, expedient or not. Catholic or not, Calvinist or 
Erastian?" Meanwhile, Jennings kept steadily regarding him, and 
Charles got more and more confused. "I think," he said, making a 
desperate snatch at authoritative words, "I think that the Articles 
'contain a godly and wholesome doctrine, and necessary for these 
times.' " ''That is the Second Book of Homilies, Mr. Reding, not 
the Articles. Besides, I want your own opinion on the subject." He 
proceeded, after a pause: "What is justification?" "Justification," 
said Charles, repeating the word, and thinking; then, in the words of 
the Article, he went on: "We are accounted righteous before God, 
but only for the merit of our Lord Jesus Christ, by faith, and not 
by our own works and deservings." "Right," said Jennings; "but 
you have not answered my question. What is justification?" This 
was very hard, for it was one of Charles's puzzles what justification 
was in itself, for the Articles do not define it any more than faith. 
He answered to this effect, that the Articles did not define it. The 
Vice-Principal looked dissatisfied. 

"Can General Councils err?" "Yes," answered Charles. This was 
right. "What do Romanists say about them?" "They think they err 
too." This was all wrong. "No," said Jennings, "they think tliem 
infallible." Charles was silent; Jennings tried to force his decision 
upon him. At length Charles said that "only some General Coimcils 
were admitted as infallible by the Romanists, and he believed that 
Bellarmine o;ave a list of General Councils which had erred." 
Another pause, and a gathering cloud on Jennings' brow. 



He returned to his former subject. "In what sense do you under- 
stand the Articles, Mr. Reding?" he asked. That was more than 
Charles could tell; he wished very much to know the right sense of 
them; so he beat about for the received answer. "In the sense of 
Scripture," he said. This was true, but nugatory. "Rather," said 
Mr. Jennings, "you understand Scripture in the sense of the Articles." 
Charles assented for peace-sake. But liis concession availed not; the 
Vice-Principal pursued his advantage: "They must not interpret each 
other, Mr. Reding, else you revolve in a circle. Let me repeat my 
question. In what sense do you interpret the Articles?" "I wish to 
take them," Reding answered, "in the general and received sense of 
our Church, as all our divines and present Bishops take them." The 
Vice-Principal looked pleased. Charles could not help being candid, 
and said in a lower tone, as if words of course, "that is, on faith." Tliis 
put all wrong again. Jennings would not allow tliis; it was a blind. 
Popish reliance; it was all very well, when he first came to the 
University, before he had read the Articles, to take them on trust; 
but a young man, who had had the advantages of Mr. Reding, 
who had been three years at St. Saviour's College, and had attended 
the Article-lectrtres, ought to hold the received view, not only as 
being received, but as his own, with a free intellectual assent. He 
went on to ask him by what texts he proved the Protestant doctrine of 
justification. Charles gave two or three of the usual passages with 
such success, that the Vice-Principal was secretly begiiming to relent, 
when unhappily, on asking a last question as a matter of course, he 
received an answer which confirmed all his former surmises, and 
sealed the speaker's fate. 

"What is our Church's doctrine concerning the intercession of 
Saints?" Charles said that he did not recollect that it had expressed 
any opinion on the subject. Jeimings bade him tliink again; Charles 
thought in vain. "Well, what is your opinion of it, Mr. Reding?" 
Charles, beHeving it to be an open point, thought he should be safe 
in imitating "our Church's" moderation. "There are different 
opinions on the subject," he said: "some persons think they intercede 
for us, others that they do not. It is easy to go into extremes; perhaps 
better to avoid such questions altogether; better to go by Scripture; 
the book of Revelation speaks of the intercession of Saints, but does 
not expressly say that they intercede for us," &c. &c. Jennings sat 
upright in his easy chair, with indignation mounting into his fore- 




head. At length his face became like night. "T/za^ is your opinion, 
Mr. Reding." Charles began to be frightened. "Please to take up 
that Prayer-book, and turn to the zzd Article. Now, begin reading 
it." "The Romish doctrine," said Charles, — "tlie Romish doctrine 
concerning purgatory, pardons, worshipping and adoration as well 
of images as of relics, and also invocation of Saints" — "Stop there," 
said the Vice-Principal; "read those words again." "And also in- 
vocation of Saints." "Now, Mr. Reding." Charles was puzzled, 
thought he had made some blunder, could not fmd it, and was silent. 
"Well, Mr. Reding?" Charles at length said that he thought Mr. 
Jennings had spoken about intercession. "So I did," he made answer. 
"And this," said Charles, timidly, "speaks of invocation.'" Jennings 
gave a little start in his arm-chair, and slightly coloured. "Eh?" he 
said; "give me the book." He slowly read the Article, and then cast 
a cautious eye over the page before and after. There was no help for 
it. He began again. "And so, Mr. Reding, you actually mean to 
shelter yourself by that subtle distinction between invocation and 
intercession; as if Papists did not invoke in order to gain the Saints' 
intercession, and as if the Saints were not supposed by them to inter- 
cede in answer to invocations? The terms are correlative. Intercession 
of Saints, instead of being an extreme only, as you consider, is a 
Romish abomination. I am ashamed of you, Mr. Reding; I am 
pained and hurt that a young man of your promise, of good ability, 
and excellent morals, should be guilty of so gross an evasion of the 
authoritative documents of our Church, such an outrage upon 
common sense, so indecent a violation of the terms on which alone 
he was allowed to place his name on the books of this society. I 
could not have a clearer proof that your mind has been perverted; 
I fear I must use a stronger term, debauched, by the sophistries and 
Jesuitries which unhappily have found entrance among us. Good 
morning, Mr. Reding." 

So it was a thing settled: Charles was to be sent home, — an endur- 
able banishment. 

Before he went down, he paid a visit of form to the old Principal — 
a worthy man in his generation, who before now had raised a con- 
gregation in a wild part of the country, had instructed the ignorant 
and fed the poor; but now in the end of his days, falling on evil times 
was permitted, for inscrutable purposes, to give evidence of that evil 
puritanical leaven which was a secret element of his religion. He had 



been kind to Charles hitherto, which made his altered manner more 
distressing to him. "We had hoped," he said, "Mr. Reding, that so 
good a young man as you once were, would have gained a place 
on some foundation, and been settled here, and been a useful man in 
his generation, sir; and a column, a buttress of the Church of England, 
sir. Well, sir, here are my best wishes for you, sir. When you come 
up for your Master's degree, sir — no, I think it is your Bachelor's — 
which is it, Mr. Reding, are you yet a Bachelor? oh, I see your 
gown." Charles said he had not yet been into the schools. "Well, sir, 
when you come up to be examined, I should say — to be examined — 
we will hope that in the interval, reflection, and study, and absence 
perhaps from dangerous companions, will have brought you to a 
soberer state of mind, Mr. Reding." Charles was shocked at the 
language used about him. "Really, sir," he said, "if you knew me 
better, you would feel that I am likely neither to receive or do harm 
by remaining here between this and Easter." "What! remain here, 
sir, with all the young men about?" asked Dr. Bluett, with astonish- 
ment, "with all the young men about you, sir?" Charles really had 
not a word to say; he did not know himself in so novel a position. 
"I cannot conceive, sir," he said at last, "why I should be unfit com- 
pany for the gentlemen of the College." Dr. Bluett's jaw dropped, 
and his eyes assumed a hollow aspect. "You will corrupt their minds, 
sir," he said, — "you will corrupt their minds." Then he added in a 
sepulchral tone, which came from the very depth of his inside, 
"You will introduce them, sir, to some subtle Jesuit — to some subtle 
Jesuit, Mr. Reding." 


Mrs. Reding was by this time settled in the neighbourhood of old 
friends in Devonshire; and there Charles spent the winter and early 
spring with her and his three sisters, the eldest of whom was two years 
older than himself. 

"Come, shut your dull books, Charles," said Caroline, the young- 
est, a girl of fourteen; "make way for the tea; I am sure you have 
read enough. You sometimes don't speak a word for an hour 
together; at least, you might tell us what you are reading about." 
"My dear Cary, you would not be much the wiser, if I did," answered 



Charles; "it is Greek history." "Oh," said Caroline, "I know more 
than you think; I have read Goldsmith and a good part of Rollin, 
besides Pope's Homer." "Capital," said Charles; "well, I am reading 
about Pelopidas, who was he?" "Pelopidas," answered Caroline, 
"I ought to know. Oh, I recollect, he had an ivory shoulder." 
"Well said, Cary; but I have not yet a distinct idea of him either. 
Was he a statue, or flesh and blood, with this shoulder of his?" "Oh, 
he was alive; somebody ate him, I think." "Well, was he a god or 
a man?" said Charles. "Oh, it's a mistake of mine," said Caroline; 
"he was a goddess, the ivory-footed — no, that was Thetis." "My 
dear Caroline," said her mother, "do not talk so at random; think 
before you speak; you know better than this." "She has, ma'am," 
said Charles, "what Mr. Jennings would call a Very inaccurate 
mind.' " "I recollect perfectly now," said Caroline; "he was a friend 
of Epaminondas." "When did he live?" asked Charles. Caroline was 
silent. "Oh, Cary," said Eliza, "don't you recollect the menwria 
technical'' "I never could learn it," said Caroline; "I hate it." "Nor 
can I," said Mary; "give me good native numbers; they are sweet 
and kindly, like flowers in a bed; but I don't like your artificial 
flower-pots." "But surely," said Charles, "a mcmoria technica makes 
you recollect a great many dates which you otherwise could not?" 
"The crabbed names are more difficult even to pronounce than the 
numbers to learn," said Caroline. "That's because you have very 
few dates to get up," said Charles; "but common writing is a niemoria 
technica" "That's beyond Caroline," said Mary. "What are words 
but artificial signs for ideas?" said Charles; "they are more musical, 
but as arbitrary. There is no reason why the sound 'hat' should mean 
the particular thing so called, which we put on our heads, than why 
*abul-distof' should stand for 1520." "O my dear child," said Mrs. 
Reding, "how you run on! Don't be paradoxical." "My dear 
mother," said Charles, coming round to the fire, "I don't wish to be 
paradoxical; it's only a generalisation." "Keep it, then, for the 
schools, my dear; I dare say it will do you good there," continued 
Mrs. Reding, while she continued her hemming; "poor Carohne 
will be as much put to it in logic as in history." 

"I am in a dilemma," said Charles, as he seated himsclt on a little 
stool at his mother's feet; "for Cary calls me stupid if I am silent, and 
you call me paradoxical, if I speak." "Good sense," said his mother, 
"is the golden mean." "And what is common sense?" said Charles. 



"The silver mean," said Eliza. "Well done," said Charles; "it is 
small change for every hour." "Rather," said Caroline, "it is the 
copper mean, for v^e want it, like alms for the poor, to give av^^ay. 
People are always asking me for it. If I can't tell who Isaac's father 
was, Mary says, 'O Cary, where's your common sense?' If I am going 
out of doors, Ehza runs up, 'Cary,' she cries, *you haven't common 
sense; your shawl's all pinned awry.' And when I ask mamma the 
shortest way across the fields to Dalton, she says, 'Use your common 
sense, my dear.' " "No wonder you have so little of it, poor dear 
child," said Charles; "no bank could stand such a run." "No such 
thing," said Mary; "it flows into her bank ten tmies as fast as it comes 
out. She has plenty of it from us; and what she does with it, no 
one can make out; she either hoards or she speculates." "Like the 
great ocean," said Charles, "which receives the rivers, yet is not full." 
"That's somewhere in Scripture," said Eliza. "In the Preacher," 
said Charles, and he continued the quotation; " 'All tilings are full of 
labour, man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor 
the ear filled with hearing.' " 

His mother sighed; "Take my cup, my love," she said; "no more." 
"I know why Charles is so fond of the Preacher," said Mary; "it's 
because he's tired of reading; 'much study is a weariness to the 
flesh:' I wish we could help you, dear Charles." "My dear boy, I 
really think you read too much," said his mother; "only think how 
many hours you have been at it to-day. You are always up one or 
tv/o hours before the sun; and I don't tliink you have had your walk 
to-day." "It's so dismal walking alone, my dear mother; and as 
to walking with you and my sisters, it's pleasant enough, but no 
exercise." "But Charlie," said Mary, "that's absurd of you; these 
nice sunny days, which you could not expect at this season, are just 
the time for long walks. Why don't you resolve to make straight for 
the plantations, or to mount Hart Hill, or go right through Dun 
Wood and back?" "Because all woods are dun and dingy just now, 
Mary, and not green. It's quite melancholy to see them." "Just 
the fmest time of the year," said liis mother; "it's universally allowed; 
all painters say that the autunm is the season to see a landscape in." 
"All gold and russet," said Mary. "It makes me melanchol^'," said 
Charles. "What! the beautiful autunm make you melancholy?" 
asked his mother. "Oh, my dear mother, you mean to say tliat I am 
paradoxical again; I camiot help it. I like spring; but autumn saddens 



me." "Charles always says so," said Mary; "he thinks nothing of the 
rich hues into which the sober green changes; he likes the dull 
uniform of summer." "No, it is not that," said Charles; "I never saw 
any thing so gorgeous as Magdalen Water-walk, for instance, in 
October; it is quite wonderful, the variety of colours. I admire and 
am astonished; but I cannot love or like it. It is because I can't 
separate the look of things from what it portends; that rich variety 
is but the token of disease and death." "Surely," said Mary, "colours 
have their own intrinsic beauty; we may like them for their own 
sake." "No, no," said Charles, "we always go by association; else 
why not admire raw beef, or a toad, or some other reptiles, which 
are as beautiful and bright as tulips or cherries, yet revolting, because 
we consider what they are, not how they look?" "What next?" said 
his mother, looking up from her work; "my dear Charles, you are 
not serious in comparing cherries to raw beef or to toads." "No, my 
dear mother," answered Charles, laughing, "no, I only say that they 
look like them, not are like them." "A toad look like a cherry, 
Charles!" persisted Mrs. Reding. "Oh, my dear mother," he an- 
swered, "I can't explain; I really have said notliing out of the way. 
Mary does not think so." "But," said Mary, "why not associate 
pleasant thoughts with autumn?" "It is impossible," said Charles; 
"it is the sick season, and the deathbed of Nature. I cannot look with 
pleasure on the decay of the mother of all living. The many hues 
upon the landscape are but the spots of dissolution." "This is a 
strained imnatural view, Charles," said Mary; "shake yourself, and 
you will come to a better mind. Don't you like to see a rich sunset? 
yet the sun is leaving you." Charles was for a moment posed; then 
he said, "Yes, but there was no autumn in Eden; sims rose and set in 
Paradise, but the leaves were always green, and did not wither. 
There was a river to feed them. Autumn is the Tall.' " 

"So, my dearest Charles," said Mrs. Reding, "you don't go out 
walking these fine days because there was no autumn in the garden 
of Eden?" "Oh," said Charles, laughing, "it is cruel to bring me so to 
book. What I meant was, that my reading was a direct obstacle to 
walking, and that the fine weather did not tempt mc to remove it." 
"I am glad we have you here, my dear," said his mother, "for we can 
force you out now and then; at College I suspect you never walk at 
all." "It's only for a time, ma'am," said Charles; "when my examina- 
tion is over, I will take as long walks as I did with Edward Candy tliat 



winter after I left school." "Ah, how merry you were then, Charles," 
said Mary; "so happy with the thoughts of Oxford before you!" 
"Ah, my dear," said Mrs. Reding, "you'll then walk too much, as 
you now walk too little. My good boy, you are so earnest about 
every thing." "It's a shame to find fault with him for being diligent," 
said Mary; "you like liim to read for honours, I know, mamma; but 
if he is to get them, he must read a great deal." "True, my love," 
answered Mrs. Reding; "Charles is a dear good fellow, I know. How 
glad we all shall be to have him ordained, and settled in a curacy!" 
Charles sighed. "Come, Mary," he said, "give us some music, now 
the urn has gone away. Play me that beautiful air of Beethoven, the 
one I call 'The voice of the dead.' " "Oh, Charles, you do give such 
melancholy names to things!" cried Mary. "The other day," said 
Eliza, "we had a most beautiful scent wafted across the road as we 
were walking, and he called it 'The ghost of the past;' and he says 
that the sound of the Eolian harp is 'remorseful.' " "Now, you'd 
think all that very pretty," said Charles, "if you saw it in a book of 
poems; but you call it melancholy when I say it." "Oh, yes," said 
Caroline, "because poets never mean what they say, and would not 
be poetical unless they were melancholy." "Well," said Mary, "I 
play to you, Charles, on this one condition, that you let me give 
you some morning a serious lecture on that melancholy of yours, 
which, I assure you, is growing on you." 


Charles's perplexities rapidly took a definite form on his coming 
into Devonshire. The very fact of his being at home, and not at 
Oxford where he ought to have been, brought them before liis mind; 
and the near prospect of his examination and degree justified the 
consideration of them. No addition indeed was made to their sub- 
stance, as already described; but they were no longer vague and 
indistinct, but thoroughly apprehended by him; nor did he make up 
his mind that they were unsurmountable, but he saw clearly what it 
was that had to be surmounted. The particular form of argument 
into which they happened to fall, was determined by the circum- 
stances in which he found himself at the time, and was this, viz. : 



how he could subscribe the Articles ex animo, without faith, more or 
less, in his Church as the imponent; and next, how he could have faith 
in her, her history and present condition being v/hat they were. 

The fact of these difficulties was a great source of distress to Charles. 
It was aggravated by the circumstance that he had no one to talk to, 
or to sympathise with him under them. And it was completed by the 
necessity of carrying about with him a secret which he dared not tell 
to others, yet which he foreboded must be told one day. All this was 
the secret of that depression of spirits which his sisters had observed 
in him. 

He was one day sitting thoughtfully over the fire with a book in 
his hand, when Mary entered. "I wish you would teach me the art 
of reading Greek in live coals," she said. "Sermons in stones, and 
good in every thing," answered Charles. "You do well to liken 
yourself to the melancholy Jacques," she replied. "Not so," said he, 
"but to the good Duke Charles, who was banished to the green 
forest." "A great grievance," answered Mary, "we being the wild 
things with whom you are forced to live. My dear Charles," she 
continued, "I hope the tittle-tattle that drove you here, does not still 
dwell on your mind." "Why, it is not very pleasant, Mary, after 
having been on the best terms with the whole College, and in 
particular with the Principal and Jennings, at last to be sent down, as 
a rowing man might be rusticated for tandem-driving. You have no 
notion how strong the old Principal was, and Jennings too." "Well, 
my dearest Charles, you must not brood over it," said Mary, "as I 
fear you are doing." "I don't see where it is to end," said Charles; 
"the Principal expressly said that my prospects at the University 
were knocked up, I suppose they would not give me a testimonial, 
if I wished to stand for a fellowship anywhere." "Oh, it is a 
temporary mistake," said Mary; "I dare say by this time they 
know better. And it's one great gain to have you with us; we, at 
least, ought to be obliged to them." "I have been so very careful, 
Mary," said Charles; "I have never been to the evening parties, or to 
the sermons which are talked about in the University. It's quite amaz- 
ing to me what can have put it into their heads. At the Article-lecture 
I now and then asked a question, but it was really because I wished to 
understand and get up the diflerent subjects. Jennings fell on me the 
moment I entered his room. I can call it nothing else; verv civil at 
first in his manner, but there was something in his eye before he 



spoke, which told me at once what was coining. It's odd a man of 
such self-command as he, should not better hide liis feelings; but I 
have always been able to see what Jennings was thinking about." 
"Depend on it," said his sister, "you will think notliing of it whatever 
this time next year. It will be like a summer-cloud, come and gone." 
"And then it damps me, and interrupts me in my reading. I fall back 
thinking of it, and cannot give my mind to my books, or exert 
myself It is very hard." Mary sighed; "I wish I could help you," 
she said; "but women can do so little. Come, let me take the fretting, 
and you che reading; that'll be a fair division." "And then my dear 
mother too," he continued; "what she will think of it when it comes 
to her ears; and come it must." "Nonsense," said Mary, "don't make 
a mountain of a mole-hill. You will go back, take your degree, and 
nobody will be the wiser." "No, it can't be so," said Charles, 
seriously. "What do you mean?" asked Mary. "These things don't 
clear off in that way," said he; "it is no summer-cloud; it may turn 
to rain, for what they know." 

Mary looked at him with some surprise. "I mean," he said, "that 
I have no confidence that they will let me take my degree, any more 
than reside there." "That is very absurd," said she; "it's what I 
meant by brooding over things, and making mountains of mole- 
hills." "My sweet Mary," he said, affectionately taking her hand, 
"my only real confidant and comfort, I would tell you something 
more, if you could bear it." Mary was frightened, and her heart beat. 
"Charles," she said, withdrawing her hand, "any pain is less than to 
see you thus. I see too clearly that something is on your mind." 
Charles put his feet on the fender, and looked down. "I can't tell 
you," he said, at length, with vehemence; then, seeing by her face 
how much he was distressing her, he said, half laugliing, as if to turn 
the edge of his words, "My dear Mary, when people bear witness 
against one, one can't help fearing that there is, perhaps, something 
to bear witness against." "Impossible, Charles! you corrupt other 
people! you falsify the Prayer-book and Articles! impossible!" 
"Mary, which do you tliink would be the best judge whether my 
face was dirty and my coat shabby, you or I? Well then, perhaps 
Jennings, or at least common report, knows more about me than I 
do myself." "You must not speak in this way," said Mary, much 
hurt; "you really do pain me now. What can you mean?" Charles 
covered his face with liis hands, and at length said: "It's no good; 



you can't assist me here; I only pain you. I ought not to have begun 
the subject." There was a silence. 

"My dearest Charles," said Mary, tenderly, "come, I will bear 
any thing, and not be annoyed. Any thing better than to see you go 
on in this way. But really you frighten me." "Why," he answered, 
"when a number of people tell me that Oxford is not my place, not 
my position, perhaps they are right; perhaps it isn't." "But is that 
really all?" she said; "who wants you to lead an Oxford life? not 
we." "No, but Oxford implies taking a degree — taking orders." 
"Now, my dear Charles, speak out; don't drop hints; let mc know;" 
and she sat down with a look of great anxiety. "Well," he said, making 
an effort; "yet I don't know where to begin; but many things have 
happened to me, in various ways, to shew me that I have not a place, 
a position, a home, that I am not made for, that I am a stranger in, 
the Church of England." There was a dreadful pause; Mary turned 
very pale; then, darting at a conclusion with precipitancy, she said 
quickly: "You mean to say, you are going to join the Church of 
Rome, Charles." "No," he said; "it is not so. I mean no such thing; 
I mean just what I say; I have told you the whole; I have kept nothing 
back. It is this, and no more, that I feel out of place." "Well then," 
she said, "you must tell me more; for, to my apprehension, you 
mean just what I have said, nothing short of it." "I can't go through 
things in order," he said; "but wherever I go, whomever I talk with, 
I feel to be another sort of person from what I am. I can't convey it 
to you; you won't understand me; but the words of the Psalm, 'I am 
a stranger upon earth,' describe what I always feel. No one tliinks 
or feels like me. I hear sermons, I talk on religious subjects with 
friends, and every one seems to bear witness against me. And now 
the College bears its witness, and sends me down." "Oh, Charles," 
said Mary, "how changed you are!" and tears came into her eyes; 
"you used to be so cheerful, so happy. You took such pleasure in 
every one, in every tiling. We used to laugh and sa)-, 'all Charhe's 
geese are swans.' What has come over you!" She paused, and then 
continued: "Don't you recollect those lines in the Cliristian Year? 
I can't repeat them; we used to apply them to you; something about 
hope or love 'making all things bright with her owii magic smile.' " 
Charles was touched when he was reminded of what he had been 
three years before; he said: "I suppose it is coining out of shadows into 
realities." "There has been much to sadden you," she added, sighing; 



"and now these nasty books are too much for you. Why should you 
go up for honours? what's the good of it?" There was a pause again. 
"I wish I could bring home to you," said Charles, "the number of 
intimations, as it were, which have been given me of my uncongeni- 
ality, as it may be called, with things as they are. What perhaps most 
affected me, was a talk I had with Carlton, whom I have lately been 
reading with; for, if I could not agree with him, or rather, i( he bore 
witness against me, who could be expected to say a word for me? 
I cannot bear the pomp and pretence which I see every where. I am 
not speaking against individuals; they are very good persons, I know; 
but, really, if you saw Oxford as it is ! The Heads with such large 
incomes; they are indeed very liberal of their money, and their wives 
are often simple self-denying persons, as every one says, and do a 
good deal of good in the place; but I speak of the system. Here are 
ministers of Christ with large incomes, living in finely furnished 
houses, with wives and families, and stately butlers and servants in 
livery, giving dinners all in the best style, condescending and gracious, 
waving their hands and mincing their words as if they were the 
cream of the earth, but without any thing to make them clergymen 
but a black coat and a white tie. And then Bishops or Deans come, 
with women tucked under their arm; and they can't enter church 
but a fme powdered man runs first with a cushion for them to sit on, 
and a warm sheepskin to keep their feet from the stones." Mary 
laughed: "Well, my dear Charles," she said, "I did not think you 
had seen so much of Bishops, Deans, Professors, and Heads of houses 
at St. Saviour's; you have kept good company." "I have my eyes 
about me," said Charles, "and have had quite opportunities enough; 
I can't go into particulars." "Well, you have been hard on them, I 
think," said Mary; "when a poor old man has the rheumatism," 
and she sighed a little, "it is hard he mayn't have his feet kept from 
the cold." "Ah, Mary, I can't bring it home to you! but you must, 
please, throw yourself into what I say, and not criticise my instances 
or my terms. What I mean is, that there is a worldly air about 
every thing, as unlike as possible the spirit of the Gospels. I don't 
impute to the dons ambition or avarice; but still, what Heads of 
houses. Fellows, and all of them evidently put before them as an 
end is, to enjoy the world in the first place, and to serve God in the 
second. Not that they don't make it their final object to get to 
heaven; but their immediate object is to be comfortable, to marry, 



to have a fair income, station, and respectability, a convenient house, 
a pleasant country, a sociable neighbourhood. There is nothing high 
about them. I declare I think the Puseyites are the only persons wlio 
have high views in the whole place; I should say, the only persons 
who profess them, for I don't know them to speak about them." 
He thought of White. "Well, you are talking of things I don't 
know," said Mary; "but I can't think all the young clever men of 
the place are looking out for ease and comfort; nor can I believe that 
in the Church of Rome money has always been put to the best of 
purposes" "I said nothing about the Church of Rome," said Charles; 
"why do you bring in the Church of Rome? that's another thing 
altogether. What I mean is, that there is a worldly smell about 
Oxford which I can't abide. I am not using 'worldly' in its worst 
sense. People are religious and charitable; but — I don't hke to 
mention names — but I know various dons, and the notion of evangeli- 
cal poverty, the danger of riches, the giving up all for Christ, all 
those ideas which are first principles in Scripture, as I read it, don't 
seem to enter into their idea of religion. I declare, I think that is the 
reason why the Puseyites are so unpopular." "Well, I can't see," 
said Mary, "why you must be disgusted with the world, and with 
your place and duties in it, because there are worldly people in it." 

"But I was speaking of Carlton," said Charles; "do you know, 
good fellow as he is, — and I love, admire, and respect him exceed- 
ingly, — he actually laid it down almost as an axiom, that a clergyman 
of the English Church ought to marry. He said that celibacy might 
be very well in other communions, but that a man made himself a 
fool, and was out of joint with the age, who remained single in the 
Church of England." Poor Charles was so serious, and the pro- 
position which he related was so monstrous, that Mary, in spite of 
her real distress, could not help laughing out. "I really cannot help 
it," she said; "well, it really was a most extraordinary statement, I 
confess. But, my dear Charlie, you are not afraid that he will carry 
you off against your will, and marry you to some fair lady before you 
know where you are." "Don't talk in that way, Mary," said Charles; 
"I can't bear a joke just now. I mean, Carlton is so sensible a man, 
and takes so just a view of things, that the conviction Hashed on my 
mind, that the Church of England really was what Ix implied it to 
be — a form of religion very unlike that of the Apostles." 

This sobered Mary indeed. "Alas," she said, "we have got upon 



very different ground now; not what our Church tliinks of you, but 
what you think of our Church." There was a pause. "I thought this 
was at the bottom," she said; "I never could beheve that a parcel of 
people, some of whom you cared nothing for, telling you that you 
were not in your place, would make you think so, unless you first 
felt it yourself. That's the real truth; and then you interpret what 
others say in your own way." Another uncomfortable pause. Then 
she continued: "I see how it will be. When you take up a thing, 
Charles, I know well you don't lay it down. No, you have made up 
your mind already. We shall see you a Roman Catholic." "Do you 
then bear witness against me, Mary, as well as the rest?" said he 
sorrowfully. She saw her mistake. "No," she answered; "all I say 
is, that it rests with yourself, not with others. If you have made up 
your mind, there's no help for it. It is not others who drive you, 
who bear witness against you. Dear Charles, don't mistake me, and 
don't deceive yourself. You have a strong will.'' 

At this moment Caroline entered the room. "I could not think 
where you were, Mary," she said; "here Perkins has been crying 
after you ever so long. It's something about dinner; I don't know 
what. We have hunted high and low, and never guessed you were 
helping Charles at liis books." Mary gave a deep sigh, and left the 


Neither to brother nor to sister had the conversation been a satisfac- 
tion or relief. "I can go no where for sympathy," thought Charles; 
"dear Mary does not understand me more than others. I can't bring 
out what I mean and feel; and when I attempt to do so, my state- 
ments and arguments seem absurd to myself It has been a great 
effort to tell her; and in one sense it is a gain, for it is a trial over. 
Else, I have taken nothing by my move, and might as well have held 
my tongue. I have simply pained her, without relieving myself. 
By the by, she has gone off believing about twice as much as the fact. 
I was going to set her right, when Cary came in. My only difficulty 
is about taking orders; and she tliinks I am going to be a Roman 
Catholic. How absurd! but women will run on so; give an inch, 
and they take an ell. I know nothing of the Roman Catholics. The 



simple question is, whether I should go to the Bar or the Church, 
I declare I think I have made vastly too much of it myself. I ought 
to have begun this way with her; — I ought to have said, 'J)'you 
know, I have serious thoughts of reading law?' I've made a hash of 

Poor Mary, on the other hand, was in a confusion of thought and 
feeling as painful as it was new to her; though for a time household 
matters and necessary duties towards her younger sisters occupied her 
mind in a different direction. She had been indeed taken at her word; 
little had she expected what would come on her, wlien she engaged 
to "take the fretting, while he took the reading." She had known 
what grief was, not so long ago; but not till now had she known 
anxiety. Charles's state of mind was a matter of simple astonishment 
to her. At first it quite frightened and shocked her; it was as if Charles 
had lost his identity, and had turned out some one else. It was like 
a great breach of trust. She had seen there was a good deal in the 
newspapers about the "Oxford party" and their doings; and at 
different places, where she had been on visits, she had heard of 
churches being done up in the new fashion, and clergymen being 
accused, in consequence, of Popery — a charge which she had laughed 
at. But now it was actually brought home to her door that there was 
something in it. Yet it was to her incomprehensible, and she hardly 
knew where she was. And that, of all persons in the world, her 
brother, her own Charles, with whom she had been one heart and 
soul all their lives — one so cheerful, so religious, so good, so sensible, 
so cautious, that he should be the first specimen that crossed her path 
of the new opinions, — it bewildered her. 

And where had he got his notions? — Notions ! she could not call 
them notions; he had nothing to say for himself. It was an infatua- 
tion; he, so clever, so sharp-sighted, could say nothing better in 
defence of himself than that Mrs. Bishop of Pembroke was too pretty, 
and that old Dr. Stock sat upon a cushion. Oh, sad, sad indeed! 
How it was he could be so insensible to the blessings he gained from 
his Church and had enjoyed all his life ! What could he need? She 
had no need at all; going to church was a pleasure to her. She liked 
to hear the Lessons and the Collects, coming round year after year, 
and marking the seasons. The historical books and prophets in 
summer; then the "Stir-up" collect just before Advent; the beautiful 
collects in Advent itself, with the lessons from Isaiah reaching on 

N — R 257 


through Epiphany; they were quite music to her ear. Then the 
Psahns, varying with every Sunday; they were a perpetual solace to 
her, ever old yet ever new. The occasional additions too, the Atlia- 
nasian Creed, the Benedictus, Deus misereatur, and Omnia opera, 
which her father had been used to read at certain great feasts; and 
the beautiful Litany. What could he want more? where could he 
fmd so much? Well, it was a mystery to her; and she could only 
feel thankful that she was not exposed to the temptations, whatever 
they were, which had acted on the powerful mind of her brother. 

Then, she had anticipated how pleasant it would be when Charles 
was himself a clergyman, and she should hear him preach; when there 
would be one whom she would have a right to ask questions and to 
consult, whenever she wished. This prospect was at an end; she could 
no longer trust him; he had given a shake to her confidence which it 
never could recover; it was gone for ever. They were all of them 
women but he; he was their only stay, now that her father had been 
taken away. What was now to become of them? To be abandoned 
by her own brother! oh, how terrible! 

And how was she to break it to her mother? for broken it must 
be sooner or later. She could not deceive herself; she knew her 
brother well enough to feel sure that, when he had really got hold 
of a thing, he would not let it go again without convincing reasons; 
and what reasons there could be for letting it go, she could not 
conceive, if there could be reasons for taking it up. The taking it up 
baffled all reason, all calculation. Well, but how was her mother 
to be told of it? Was it better to let her suspect it first, and so break 
it to her, or to wait till the event happened? The problem was too 
diificult for the present, and she must leave it. 

This was her state for several days, till her fever of mind gradually 
subsided into a state of which a dull anxiety was a latent but habitual 
element, leaving her as usual at ordinary times, but every now and 
then betraying itself by sudden sharp sighs or wanderings of thought. 
Neither brother nor sister, loving each other really as much as ever, 
had quite the same sweetness and evenness of temper as was natural 
to them; self-command became a duty, and the evening circle was 
duller than before, without any one being able to say why. Charles 
was more attentive to his mother; he no more brought his books 
into the drawing-room, but gave himself to her company. He read 
to them, but he had little to talk about; and Ehza and Caroline both 



wished his stupid examination past and over, that he might be 
restored to his natural hvehness. 

As to Mrs. Reding, she did not observe more tlian tliat Iicr son 
was a very hard student, and grudged himself a walk or ride, let the 
day be never so fme. She was a mild quiet person, of keen feelings 
and precise habits; not very quick at observation; and having lived 
all her life in the country, and till her late loss having scarcely known 
what trouble was, she was singularly unable to comprehend how 
things could go on in any way but one. Charles had not told her the 
real cause of his spending the winter at home, thinking it would be 
a needless vexation to her; much less did he contemplate harassing 
her with the recital of his own religious difficulties, which were not 
of a nature to be appreciable by a woman, and issued in no defmite 
result. To his sister he did attempt an explanation of his former 
conversation, with a view of softening the extreme misgivings which 
it had created in her mind. She received it thankfully, and professed 
to be relieved by it; but the blow was struck, the suspicion was lodged 
deep in her mind, — he was still Charles, dear to her as ever, but she 
never could rid herself of the anticipation wliich on that occasion she 
had expressed. 


One morning he was told that a gentleman had asked for him, and 
been shewn into the dining-room. Descending, he saw the tall slender 
figure of Bateman, now a clergyman, and lately appointed curate of 
a neighbouring parish. Charles had not seen him for a year and a 
half, and shook hands with him very warmly, complimenting him 
on his white neckcloth, which somehow, he said, altered him more 
than he could have expected. Bateman's mamier certainly was 
altered; it might be the accident of the day, but he did not seem quite 
at his ease; it might be that he was in a strange house, and was likely 
soon to be precipitated into the company of ladies, to which he had 
never been used. If so, the trial was on the point of begimiing; for 
Charles said instantly that he must come and see his mother, and 
of course meant to dine with them; — the sky was clear, and there 
was an excellent footpath between Boughton and Melford. Bateman 
could not do this, but he would have the greatest pleasure in being 



introduced to Mrs. Reding; so he stumbled after Charles into the 
drawing-room, and was soon conversing with her and the yoimg 

"A charming prospect you have here, ma'am," said Bateman, 
"when you are once inside the house. It does not promise outside 
so extensive a view." "No, it is shut in with trees," said Mrs. Reding; 
"and the brow of the hill changes its direction so much that at first 
I used to think the prospect ought to be from the opposite windows." 
"What is that high Ml?" said Bateman. "It is Hart Hill," said 
Charles; "there's a Roman camp atop of it." " We can see eight 
steeples from our windows," said Mrs. Reding; — "ring the bell for 
luncheon, my dear." "Ah, our ancestors, Mrs. Reding," said Bate- 
man, "thought more of building churches than we do; or rather 
than we have done, I should say, for now it is astonishing what 
efforts are made to add to our ecclesiastical structures." "Our 
ancestors did a good deal too," said Mrs. Reding; "how many 
churches, my dear, were built in London in Queen Anne's time? 
St. Martin's was one of them." "Fifty," said Eliza. "Fifty were 
intended," said Charles. "Yes, Mrs. Reding," said Bateman; "but 
by ancestors I meant the holy Bishops and other members of our 
Cathohc Church previously to the Reformation. For, though the 
Reformation was a great blessing," (a glance at Charles) "yet we 
must not, in justice, forget what was done by EngHsh Churclimen 
before it." "Ah, poor creatures," said Mrs. Reding, "they did one 
good tiling in building churches; it has saved us much trouble." "Is 
there much church-restoration going on in these parts?" said Bateman, 
taken rather aback. "My mother has but lately come here, like 
yourself," said Charles: "yes, there is some; Barton Church, you 
know," appealing to Mary. "Have your walks extended so far as 
Barton?" said Mary to Bateman, "Not yet, Miss Reding, not yet," 
answered he; "of course they are destroying the pews." "They are 
to put in seats," said Charles, "and of a very good pattern." "Pews 
are intolerable," said Bateman; "yet the last generation of incumbents 
contentedly bore them; it is wonderful." 

A not unnatural silence followed this speech. Charles broke it by 
asking if Bateman intended to do any thing in the improvement- 
Hne at Melford. Bateman looked modest. "Nothing of any con- 
sequence," he said; "some few things were done; but he had a rector 
of the old school, poor man, who was an enemy to that sort of thing." 



It was with some malicious feeling, in consequence of his attack on 
clergymen of the past age, that Charles pressed his visitor to give an 
account of his own reforms. "Why," said Bateman, "much dis- 
cretion is necessary in these matters, or you do as much harm as good; 
you get into hot water with churchwardens and vestries, as well as 
with old rectors, and again with the gentry of the place, and please no 
one. For this reason I have made no attempt to introduce the surplice 
into the pulpit except on the great festivals, intending to familiarise 
my parishioners to it by little and little. However, I wear a scarf 
or stole, and have taken care that it should be two inches broader 
than usual; and I always wear the cassock in my parish. I hope you 
approve of the cassock, Mrs. Reding?" "It's a very cold dress, sir 
— that's my opinion — when made of silk or bombazeen; and very 
unbecoming too, when worn by itself." "Particularly behind," said 
Charles; "it is quite unshapely." "Oh, I have remedied that," said 
Bateman; "you have noticed, Miss Reding, I dare say, the Bishop's 
short cassock. It comes to the knees, and looks much like a continua- 
tion of a waistcoat, the straight-cut coat being worn as usual. Well, 
Miss Reding, I have adopted the same plan with the long cassock; 
I put my coat over it." Mary had difficulty to keep from smiling; 
Charles laughed out. "Impossible, Bateman," he said; "you don't 
mean you wear your tailed French coat over your long straight 
cassock reaching to your ankles?" "Certainly," said Bateman 
gravely: "I thus consult for warmth and appearance too; and all my 
parishioners are sure to know me. I think this a great point. Miss 
Reding; I hear the little boys as I pass say, 'That's the parson.' " 
"I'll be bound they do," said Charles. "Well," said Mrs. Reding 
surprised out of her propriety, "did one ever hear the like!" Bateman 
looked round at her, startled and frightened. 

"You were going to speak of your improvements in your church," 
said Mary, wishing to divert his attention from her mother. "Ah, 
true, Miss Reding, true," said Bateman, "thank you for reminding 
me; I have digressed to improvements in my own dress. I should 
have liked to have pulled down the galleries and lowered the high 
pews; that, however, I could not do. So I have lowered the pulpit 
some six feet. Now by doing so, first I give a pattern in my o\\ti 
person of the kind of condescension or lowliness to which I would 
persuade my people. But this is not all; for the consequence of 
lowering the pulpit is, that no one in the galleries can see or hear 



^fv\^i^ t'^^ , , J ^ ^ f.^j^c^.(t<y , 


me preach; and this is a bonus on those who are below." "It's a 
broad hint, certainly," said Charles. "But it's a hint for those below 
also," continued Bateman; "for no one can see or hear nie in the 
pews either, till the sides are lowered." "One thing only is wanting 
besides," said Charles, smiling and looking airdable, lest he should be 
saying too much; "since you are full tall, you must kneel when you 
preach, Bateman, else you will undo your own alterations." Bateman 
looked pleased. "I have anticipated you," he said; "I preach sitting. 
It is more conformable to antiquity and to reason to sit than to stand." 
"With these precautions," said Charles, "I really think you might 
have ventured on your surplice in the pulpit every Sunday. Are your 
parishioners contented?" "Oh, not at all, far from it,'^' cried Bateman; 
"but they can do nothing. The alteration is so simple." "Any thing 
besides?" asked Charles. "Nothing in the architectural way," an- 
swered he, "but one thing more in the way of observances. I have 
fortunately picked up a very fair copy of Jewell, black-letter; and I 
have placed it in church, securing it with a chain to the wall, for any 
poor person who wishes to read it. Our Church is emphatically the 
*poor man's Church,' Mrs. Reding." "Well," said Charles to hmiself, 
"I'll back the old parsons against the young ones any day, if this is 
to be their cut." Then aloud: "Come, you must see our garden; 
take up your hat, and let's have a turn in it. There's a very nice 
terrace-walk at the upper end." Bateman accordingly, having been 
thus trotted out for the amusement of the ladies, was now led off 
again, and was soon in the aforesaid terrace-walk, pacing up and 
down in earnest conversation with Charles. 

"Reding, my good fellow," said he, "what is the meaning of this 
report concerning you, which is every where about?" "I have not 
heard it," said Charles abruptly. "Why it is this," said Bateman; 
"I wish to approach the subject with as great delicacy as possible; 
don't tell me, if you don't like it, or tell me just as much as you like; 
yet you will excuse an old friend. They say you arc going to leave 
the Church of your baptism for the Church of Rome." "Is it widely 
spread?" asked Charles coolly. "Oh, yes; I heard it in London; have 
had a letter mentioning it from Oxford; and a friend of mine heard 
it given out as positive at a visitation-dimier in Wales." "So," 
thought Charles, "you are bringing your witness against me, as well 
as the rest." "Well, but, my good Reding," said Bateman, "why 
are you silent? is it true? is it true?" "What true? that I am a Roman 



Catholic? oh, certainly; don't you understand that's why I am 
reading so hard for tlic scliools?" said Charles. "Come, be serious 
for a moment, Reding," said Bateman, "do be serious. Will you 
empower me to contradict the report, or to negative it to a certain 
point, or in any respect?" "Oh, to be sure," said Charles, "contradict 
it by all means, contradict it entirely." "May I give it a plain, un- 
qualified, unconditional, categorical, flat denial?" asked Bateman. 
"Of course, of course." Bateman could not make him out, and liad 
not a dream how he was teasing him. "I don't know where to find 
you," he said. They paced down the walk in silence. 

Bateman began again. "You see," he said, "it would be such a 
wonderful blindness, it would be so utterly inexcusable, in a person 
like yourself, who had known ti^hat the Church of England was; not 
a Dissenter, not an unlettered layman; but one who had been at 
Oxford, who had come across so many excellent men, who had seen 
what the Church of England could be, her grave beauty, her orderly 
and decent activity; who had seen churches decorated as they should 
be, with candlesticks, ciboriums, faldstools, lecterns, antcpendiums, 
piscinas, roodlofts, and sedilia; who, in fact, had seen the Church- 
system carried out, and could desiderate nothing; — tell me, my dear 
good Reding," taking hold of his button-hole, "what is it you 
want? what is it? name it." "That you would take yourself off," 
Charles would have said, had he spoken his mind; he merely said, 
however, that really he desiderated nothing but to be believed when 
he said that he had no intention of leaving his own Church. Bateman 
was incredulous, and thought him close. "Perhaps you are not 
aware," he said, "how much is known of the circumstances of your 
being sent down. The old Principal was full of the subject." "What, 
I suppose he told people right and left," said Reding. "Oh, yes," 
answered Bateman; "a friend of mine knows him, and happening 
to call on him soon after you went down, had the whole story from 
him. He spoke most kindly of you, and in the highest terms; said 
that it was deplorable how much your mind was warped by the 
prevalent opinions, and that he should not be surprised if it turned 
out you were a Romanist even while you were at St. Saviour's; 
anyhow, that you would be one day a Romanist for certain, for that 
you held that the saints reigning with Christ intercede for us in 
heaven. But, what was stronger, when the report got about, Sheffield 
said that he was not surprised at it, that he always prophesied it." 


toss AND GAIN 

"I am much obliged to him," said Charles, "However, you warrant 
me," said Bateman, "to contradict it — so I understand you — to 
contradict it peremptorily; that's enough for me. It's a great rehef; 
it is very satisfactory. Well, I must be going," "I don't like to seem 
to drive you away," said Charles, "but really you must be going, 
if you want to get home before nightfall. I hope you don't feel lonely 
or overworked where you are. If you are so at any time, don't 
scruple to drop in to dinner here, nay, we can take you in for a night, 
if you wish it." 

Bateman thanked him, and they proceeded to the hall-door 
together; when they were nearly parting, Bateman stopped and said, 
"Do you know, I should like to lend you some books to read. Let 
me send up to you Bramhall's Works, Thorndike, Barrow on the 
Unity of the Church, and Leslie's Dialogues on Romanism. I could 
name others, but content myself with these at present. They perfectly 
settle the matter; you can't help being convinced, I'll not say a word 
more; good-bye to you, good-bye." 


Much as Charles loved and prized the company of his mother and 
sisters, he was not sorry to have gentlemen's society; so he accepted 
with pleasure an invitation wliich Bateman sent liim to dine with 
him at Melford. Also he wished to shew Bateman, what no protesta- 
tion could effect, how absurdly exaggerated were the reports which 
were circulated about him. And as the said Bateman, with all liis 
want of common sense, was really a well-informed man, and well 
read in English divines, he thought he might incidentally hear some- 
thing from hun which he could turn to account. When he got to 
Melford, he found a Mr. Campbell had been asked to meet him; a 
young Cambridge rector of a neighbouring parish, of the same 
rehgious sentiments as Bateman, and, though a little positive, a man 
of clear head and vigorous mind. 

They had been going over the church; and the conversation at 
dinner turned on the revival of Gothic architecture — an event which 
gave unmixed satisfaction to all parties. The subject would have died 
out, almost as soon as it was started, for want of a difference of 



opinion upon it, had not Batcman happily gone on boldly to declare, 
that, if he had his will, there should be no architecture in the English 
churches but Gothic, and no music but Gregorian. This was a good 
thesis, distinctly put, and gave scope for a very pretty quarrel. 
Reding said, that all these adjuncts of worship, whether music or 
architecture, were national; they were the mode in which religious 
feeling shewed itself in particular times and places. He did not mean 
to say, that the outward expression of religion in a country might 
not be guided, but it could not be forced; that it was as preposterous 
to make people worship in one's own way, as to be merry in one's 
own way. "The Greeks," he said, "cut the hair in grief, the Romans 
let it grow; the Orientals veiled their heads in worship, the Greeks 
uncovered them; Christians take off their hats in a church, Maho- 
medans their shoes; a long veil is a sign of modesty in Europe, of 
immodesty in Asia. You may as well try to change the size of 
people, as their forms of worship. Bateman, we must cut you down 
a foot, and then you shall begin your ecclesiastical reforms." "But 
surely, my worthy friend," answered Bateman, "you don't mean to 
say that there is no natural connexion between internal feeling and 
outward expression, so that one form is no better than another?" "Far 
from it," answered Charles; "but let those who confme their music 
to Gregorians, put up crucifixes in the highways. Each is the repre- 
sentative of a particular locality or time." "That's what I say of our 
good friend's short coat and long cassock," said Campbell; "it is a con- 
fusion of different times, ancient and modem." "Or of different ideas," 
said Charles, "the cassock Catholic, the coat Protestant." "The re- 
verse," said Bateman; "the cassock is old Hooker's Anglican habit; the 
coat comes from Catholic France." "Anyhow, it is what Mr. Reding 
calls a mixture of ideas," said Campbell; "and that's the difficulty 
I find in uniting Gothic and Gregorians." "Oh, pardon me," said 
Bateman, "they are one idea; they are both eminently Catholic." 
"You can't be more Catholic than Rome, I suppose," said Campbell; 
"yet there's no Gothic there." "Rome is a peculiar place," said Bate- 
man; "besides, my dear friend, if we do but consider that Rome has 
corrupted the pure apostolical doctrine, can we wonder that it should 
have a corrupt architecture?" "Why, then, go to it for Gregorians?" 
said Campbell; "I suspect they are called after Gregory the first, 
Bishop of Rome, whom Protestants consider the first specimen of 
Antichrist." "It's nothing to us what Protestants think," answered 



Batenian. "Don't let's quarrel about terms," said Campbell; "both 
you and I think that Rome has corrupted the faith, whether she is 
Antichrist or not. You said so yourself just now." "It is true, I did," 
said Bateman; "but I make a little distinction. The Church of Rome 
has not corrupted the faith, but has admitted corruptions among her 
people." "It won't do," answered Campbell; "depend on it, we can't 
stand our ground, unless we feel that we have cause to think very 
painfully of the Church of Rome." "Why, what's Rome to us?" 
asked Bateman; "we come from the old British Church; we don't 
meddle with Rome, and we wish Rome not to meddle with us, but 
she will," "Well," said Campbell, "you but read a bit of the history 
of the Reformation, and you will fmd that the doctrine that the Pope 
is Antichrist was the hfe of the movement." "With Ultra-Protestants, 
not with us," answered Bateman. "Such Ultra-Protestants as the 
writers of the Homilies," said Campbell: "but I say again, I am not 
contending for names; I only mean, that as that doctrine was the life 
of the Reformation, so a belief, which I have and you too, that there 
is something bad, corrupt, perilous in the Church of Rome — that 
there is a spirit of Antichrist living in her, energising in her, and ruling 
her, — is necessary to a man's being a good Anglican. You must 
believe this, or you ought to go to Rome." "Impossible! my dear 
friend," said Bateman; "all our doctrine has been, that Rome and 
we are sister Churches." "I say," said Campbell, "that, without this 
strong repulsion, you will not withstand the great claims, the over- 
coming attractions, of the Church of Rome. She is our mother, — oh, 
that word 'mother!' — a mighty mother! She opens her arms, — oh, 
the fragrance of that bosom ! She is full of gifts, — I feel it, I have 
long felt it. Why don't I rush into her arms? because I feel that she 
is ruled by a spirit which is not she. But did that distrust of her go 
from me, was that certainty which I have of her corruption dis- 
proved, I should join her communion to-morrow." "Tliis is not 
very edifying doctrine for Reding," thought Bateman. "Oh, my 
good Campbell," he said, "you are paradoxical to-day." "Not a 
bit of it," answered Campbell; "our Reformers felt that the only 
way in which they could break the tie of allegiance which bound us 
to Rome was the doctrine of her serious corruption. And so it is 
with our divines. If there is one doctrine in which they agree, it is 
that Rome is Antichrist, or an Antichrist. Depend upon it, that 
doctrine is necessary for our position." 



"I don't quite iindcrstaiid that language," said Reding; "I sec it is 
used in various publications. It implies that controversy is a game, 
and that disputants are not looking out for truth, but for arguments." 
"You must not mistake me, Mr. Reding," answered Campbell; 
"all I mean is, that you have no leave to trifle with your conviction 
that Rome is antichristian, if you think so. For if it is so, it is necessary 
to say so. A poet says, 'Speak gently of our sister's faW; no, if it is a 
fall, we must not speak gently of it. At first one says, *So great a 
Church! who am I to speak against it?' Yes, you must, if it is true: 
'Tell truth, and shame the devil.' Recollect, you don't use your own 
words; you are sanctioned, protected by all our divines. You must, 
else you can give no sufficient reason for not joining the Church of 
Rome. You must speak out, not what you don't think, but what you 
do think, if you think it." "Here's a doctrine!" thought Charles; 
"why it's putting the controversy into a nut-shell." Bateman inter- 
posed. "My dear Campbell," he said, "you are behind the day. We 
have given up all that abuse against Rome." "Then the party is not 
so clever as I give them credit for being," answered Campbell; "be 
sure of this, — those who have given up their protests against Rome, 
either are looking towards her, or have no eyes at all." "All we say," 
answered Bateman, "is, as I said before, that we don't wish to interfere 
with Rome; we don't anathematise Rome, — Rome anathematises 
us." "It won't do," said Campbell; "those who resolve to remain in 
our Church, and are using sweet words of Romanism, will be forced 
back upon their proper ground in spite of themselves, and will get no 
thanks for their pains. No man can serve two masters; either go to 
Rome, or condemn Rome. For me, the Romish Church has a 
great deal in it which I can't get over; and thinking so, much as I 
admire it in parts, I can't help speaking, I can't help it. It would not 
be honest; and it would not be consistent." 

"Well, he has ended better than he began," thought Bateman; and 
he chimed in, "Oh, yes, true, too true; it's painful to see it, but there's 
a great deal in the Church of Rome which no man of plain sense, 
no reader of the Fathers, no Scripture student, no true member of 
the Anglo-Catholic Church can possibly stomach." This put a 
corona on the discussion; and the rest of the dinner passed off 
pleasantly indeed, but not very intellectually. 




After dinner, it occurred to them that the subject of Gregorians and 
Gothic had been left in the lurch. "How in the world did we get 
off it?" asked Charles. "Well, at least we have found it," said 
Bateman; "and I really should like to hear what you have to say 
upon it, Campbell." "Oh, really, Bateman," answered he, "I am 
quite sick of the subject; every one seems to me to be going into 
extremes: what's the good of arguing about it? you won't agree with 
me." "I don't see that at all," answered Bateman; "people often think 
they differ, merely because they have not courage to talk to each 
other." "A good remark," thought Charles; "what a pity that 
Bateman, with so much sense, should have so little common sense!" 
"Well, then," said Campbell, "my quarrel with Gotliic and 
Gregorians, when coupled together, is, that they are two ideas, not 
one. Have figured music in Gothic churches, keep your Gregorian 
for basihcas." "My good Campbell," said Bateman, "you seem 
oblivious that Gregorian chants and hymns have always accompanied 
Gothic aisles, Gothic copes, Gothic mitres, and Gothic chalices." 
"Our ancestors did what they could," answered Campbell; "they 
were great in architecture, small in music. They could not use what 
was not yet invented. They sang Gregorians because they had not 
Palestrina." "A paradox, a paradox," cried Bateman. "Surely there 
is a close connexion," answered Campbell, "between the rise and 
nature of the basiUca and the Gregorian unison. Both existed before 
Christianity; both are of Pagan origin; both were afterwards con- 
secrated to the service of the Church." "Pardon me," interrupted 
Bateman; "Gregorians were Jewish, not Pagan." "Be it so, for 
argument-sake," said Campbell; "still, at least they were not of 
Christian origin. Next, the old music and the old arcliitecture were 
both inartificial and limited, as methods of exliibiting their respective 
arts. You can't have a large Grecian temple, you can't have a long 
Gregorian mass." "Not a long one!" said Bateman; "why there's 
poor Wilhs used to complain how tedious the old Gregorian com- 
positions were abroad." "I don't explain myself," answered Camp- 
bell; "of course, you may produce them to any length, but merely by 
addition, not by carrying on the melody. You can put two together, 
and then have one twice as long as either. But I speak of a musical 



piece; which must of course be the natural development of certain 
ideas, with one part depending on another. In like maimer, you 
might make an Ionic temple twice as long and twice as wide as the 
Parthenon; but you would lose the proportions by doing so. This, 
then, is what I meant to say of the primitive architecture and the 
primitive music, that they soon come to their limit; they soon are 
exhausted, and can do nothing more. If you attempt more, it's like 
taxing a musical instrument beyond its powers." 

"You but try, Bateman," said Reding, "to make a bass play 
quadrilles, and you will see what is meant by taxing an instrument." 
"Well, I have heard Lindley play all sorts of quick tunes on his bass," 
said Bateman, "and most wonderful it is." "Wonderful's the right 
word," answered Reding; "it is very wonderful. You say, 'How 
can he manage it?' and 'It's very wonderful for a bass;' but it is not 
pleasant in itself In like manner, I have always felt a digust when 
Mr. So-and-so comes forward to make liis sweet flute bleat and bray 
like a hautbois; it's forcing the poor thing to do what it was never 
made for." "This is literally true as regards Gregorian music," said 
Campbell; "instruments did not exist in primitive times which could 
execute any other. But I speak under correction; Mr. Reding seems 
to know more about the subject than I do." "I have always under- 
stood, as you say," answered Charles; "modern music did not come 
into existence till after the powers of the violin became known. 
Corelli himself, who wrote not two hundred years ago, hardly 
ventures on the shift. The piano, again, I have heard, has almost given 
birth to Beethoven." "Modern music, then, could not be in ancient 
times, for want of modern instruments," said Campbell; "and in like 
manner Gothic architecture could not exist till vaulting was brought 
to perfection. Great mechanical inventions have taken place, both in 
architecture and in music, since the age of basilicas and Gregorians; 
and each science has gained by it." "It is curious enough," said 
Reding, "one thing which I have been accustomed to say, quite 
falls in with this view of yours. When people, who are not musicianr, 
have accused Handel and Beethoven of not being simple, I have 
always said, 'Is Gothic architecture simpleT A cathedral expresses 
one idea, but is indefinitely varied and elaborated in its parts; so 
is a symphony or quartet of Beethoven's." 

"Certainly, Bateman, you must tolerate Pagan architecture, or 
you must in consistency exclude Pagan or Jewish Gregorians," said 



Campbell; "you must tolerate figured music, or reprobate tracery 
windows." "And which are you for," asked Bateman; "Gotliic with 
Handel, or Roman with Gregorians?" "For both in their place," 
answered Campbell. "I exceedingly prefer Gothic architecture to 
classical. I think it the one true cliild and development of Christianity; 
but I won't, for that reason, discard the Pagan style which has been 
sanctified by eighteen centuries, by the exclusive love of many 
Christian countries, and by the sanction of a host of saints. I am 
for toleration. Give Gothic an ascendency; be respectful towards 

The conversation slackened. "Much as I like modern music," said 
Charles, "I can't quite go the length to which your doctrine would 
lead me. I camiot, indeed, help liking Mozart; but surely his music 
is not religious." "I have not been speaking in defence of particular 
composers," said Campbell; "figured music may be right, yet Mozart 
or Beethoven inadmissible. In like manner, you don't suppose, 
because I tolerate Roman architecture, that therefore I like naked 
cupids to stand for cherubs, and sprawling women for the cardinal 
virtues." He paused: "Besides," he added, "as you were saying 
yourself just now, we must consult the genius of our country, and 
the religious associations of our people." "Well," said Bateman, 
"I think the perfection of sacred music is Gregorian set to harmonies; 
there you have the glorious old chants, and just a little modern rich- 
ness." "And I think it just the worst of all," answered Campbell; 
"it is a mixture of two things, each good in itself, and incongruous 
together. It's a mixture of the first and second courses at table. It's 
like the architecture of the facade at Milan, half Gothic, half Grecian." 
"It's what is always used, I believe," said Charles. "Oh, yes, we must 
not go against the age," said Campbell; "it would be absurd to do so. 
I only spoke of what was right and wrong on abstract principles; 
and, to tell the truth, I can't help liking the mixture myself, though I 
can't defend it." 

Bateman rang for tea; his friends wished to return home soon; it 
was the month of January, and no season for after-dinner strolls. 
"Well," he said, "Campbell, you are more lenient to the age than to 
me; you yield to the age when it sets a figured bass to a Gregorian 
tone; but you laugh at me for setting a coat upon a cassock." "It's 
no honour to be the author of a mixed type," said Campbell, "A 
mixed type?" said Bateman; "rather it is a transition state." "What 



are you passing to?" asked Charles. "Talking of transitions," said 
Campbell; "do you know tliat your man Willis,- I don't know his 
college, he turned Romanist, — is living in my parish, and I have 
hopes he is making a transition back again." "Have you seen him?" 
said Charles. "No; I have called, but was unfortunate; he was out. 
He still goes to mass, I fmd." "Why, where does he fmd a chapel?" 
asked Bateman. "At Seaton." "A good seven miles from you," said 
Charles, "Yes," answered Campbell; "and he walks to and fro every 
Sunday." "That is not like a transition, except a physical one," 
observed Reding. "A person must go somewhere," answered 
Campbell; "I suppose he went to church up to the week he joined the 
Romanists." "Very awful, these defections," said Bateman, "but 
very satisfactory; a melancholy satisfaction," with a look at Charles, 
"that the victims of the delusion should be at length recovered." 
"Yes," said Campbell; "very sad indeed. I am afraid we must expect 
a number more." "Well, I don't know how to think it," said Charles; 
"the hold our Church has on the mind is so powerful; it is such a 
wrench to leave it, I cannot fancy any party-tie standing against it. 
Humanly speaking, there is far, far more to keep them fast than to 
carry them away." "Yes, if they moved as a party," said Campbell; 
"but that is not the case. They don't move simply because others 
move, but, poor fellows, because they can't help it. — Bateman, will 
you let my chaise be brought round? — How can they help it?" con- 
tinued he, standing up over the fire; "their Catholic principles lead 
them on, and there's nothing to repel them back." "Why should 
not their love for their own Church?" asked Bateman; "it is deplor- 
able, unpardonable." "They will keep going one after another, as 
they ripen," said Campbell. "Did you hear the report — I did not 
think much of it myself," said Reding — "that Smith was moving?" 
"Not impossible," answered Campbell, thoughtfully. "Impossible, 
quite impossible," cried Bateman; "such a triumph to the enemy; 
I'll not believe it till I see it." "Not impossible," repeated Campbell, 
as he buttoned and fitted his greatcoat about him; "he has sliifted his 
ground." His carriage was announced. "Mr. Reding, I believe I 
can take you part of your way, if you will accept of a seat in my 
pony-chaise." Charles accepted the offer; and Bateman was soon 
deserted by his two guests. 




Campbell put Charles down at about half-way between Melford and 
his home. It was bright moonhght; and, after thanking his friend 
for the hft, he bounded over the stile at the side of the road, and 
was at once buried in the shade of the copse along which his path lay. 
Soon he came in sight of a tall wooden Cross, which, in better days, 
had been a religious emblem, but had served in later times to mark 
the boundary between two contiguous parishes. The moon was 
behind him, and the sacred symbol rose awfully in the pale sky, over- 
hanging a pool, which was still venerated in the neighbourhood for 
its reported miraculous virtue. Charles, to his surprise, saw distinctly 
a man kneeling on the little mound out of which the Cross grew; 
nay, heard him, for his shoulders were bare, and he was using the 
discipline upon them, while he repeated what appeared to be some 
form of devotion. Charles stopped, unwilling to interrupt, yet not 
knowing how to pass; but the stranger had caught the sound of feet, 
and in a few seconds vanished from his view. He was overcome with 
a sudden emotion, which he could not control. "O happy times," 
he cried, "when faith was one! O blessed penitent, whoever you are, 
who know what to beUeve, and how to gain pardon, and can begin 
where others end! Here am I in my twenty-third year, uncertain 
about every thing, because I have nothing to trust." He drew near 
to the Cross, took off his hat, knelt down and kissed the wood, and 
prayed a while, that, whatever inight be the consequences, whatever 
the trial, whatever the loss, he might have grace to follow on whither- 
soever God should call him. He then rose and turned to the cold 
well; he took some water in his palm and drank it. He felt as if he 
could have prayed to the Saint who owned that pool — St. Thomas 
the Martyr, he believed — to plead for him, and to aid him in his 
search after the true faith; but something whispered, "It is wrong;" 
and he checked the wish. So, regaining his hat, he passed away, and 
pursued his homeward path at a brisk pace. 

The family had retired for the night, and he went up without 
delay to his bedroom. Passing through his study, he found a letter 
lying on his table, without post-mark, which had come for him in 
his absence. He broke the seal; it was an anonymous paper, and 
began as follows: 



'' Questions for one whom it concerns. 

"l. What is meant by the One Church of which the Creed 

"This is too much for to-night," thought Charles, "it is late 
already;" and he folded it up again, and threw it on his dressing-table. 
"Some well-meaning person, I dare say, who thinks he knows me." 
He wound up his watch, gave a yawn, and put on his slippers. "Who 
can there be in this neighbourhood to write it?" He opened it again. 
"It's certainly a Catholic's writing," he said. His mind glanced to the 
person whom he had seen under the Cross; perhaps it glanced further. 
He sat down, and began reading in extenso: 

*' Questions for one whom it concerns. 

1. What is meant by the One Church of which the Creed speaks? 

2. Is it a generalization or a thing? 

3. Does it belong to past history or to the present time? 

4. Does not Scripture speak of it as a kingdom? 

5. And a kingdom which was to last to the end? 

6. What is a kingdom? and what is meant when Scripture calls 
the Church a kingdom? 

7. Is it a visible kingdom, or an invisible? 

8. Can a kingdom have two governments, and these acting in con- 
trary directions? 

9. Is identity of institutions, opinions, or race, sufficient to make 
two nations one kingdom? 

10. Is the Episcopal form, the hierarchy, or the Apostles' Creed, 
sufficient to make the Churches of Rome and of England one? 

11. Where there arc parts, does not unity require union, and a 
visible unity require a visible union? 

12. How can two religions be the same, which have utterh' distinct 
worships and ideas of worship? 

13. Can two religions be one, if the most sacred and peculiar act 
of worship in the one is called 'a blasphemous fable and 
dangerous deceit' in the other? 

14. Has not the One Church of Christ one faith? 

15. Can a Church be Christ's which has not one faith? 

16. Wliich is contradictory to itself in its documents? 

17. And in different centuries? 

N— s 273 



1 8. And in its documents contrasted with its divines? 

19. And in its divines and members one v^ith another? 

20. What is the faith of the EngUsh Church? 

21. How many Councils does the Enghsh Church admit? 

22. Does the Enghsh Church consider the present Nestorian and 
Jacobite Churches under an anathema, or parts of the visible 

23. Is it possible, or necessary, to believe any one but a professed 
messenger from God? 

24. Is the English Church, docs she claim to be, a messenger from 

25. Does she impart the truth, or bid us seek it? 

26. If she leaves us to seek it, do members of the English Church 
seek it with that earnestness which Scripture enjoins? 

27. Is a person safe who lives without faith, even though he seem 
to have hope and charity?" 

Charles got very sleepy before he reached the "twenty-seventhly." 
"It won't do," he said; "I am only losing my time. They seem well 
put, but they must stand over." He put the paper from him, said 
his prayers, and was soon fast asleep. 

Next morning, on waking, the subject of the letter came into his 
mind, and he lay some time thinking over it. "Certainly," he said, 
"I do wish very much to be settled either in the English Church or 
somewhere else. I wish I knew what Christianity was; I am ready to 
be at pains to seek it, and would accept it eagerly and thankfully if 
found. But it's a work of time; all the paper-arguments in the world 
are unequal to giving one a view in a nioment. There must be a 
process; they may shorten it, as medicine does physical processes, 
but they can't supersede its necessity. I recollect how all my religious 
doubts and theories went to flight on my dear father's death. They 
weren't part of me, and could not sustain rough weather. Conviction 
is the eye-sight of the mind, not a conclusion from premisses; God 
works it, and His works are slow. At least so it is with me. I can't 
believe on a sudden; if I attempt it, I shall be using words for things, 
and be sure to repent it. Or if not, I shall go right merely by hazard. 
I must move in what seems God's way; I can but put myself on the 
road; a higher power must overtake me, and carry me forward. At 
present I have a direct duty upon me, which my dear father left me, 



to take a good, class. This is the patli of duty. I won't put off the 
inquiry, but I'll let it proceed in that path. God can bless my reading 
to my spiritual illumination as well as any thing else. Saul sought his 
uncle's asses, and found a kingdom. All in good time. When I have 
taken my degree, the subject will properly come on me." He sighed. 
"My degree! those odious Articles! rather, when I have passed my 
examination. Well, it's no good lying here;" and he jumped up and 
signed himself with the Cross. His eye caught the letter. "It's well 
written — better than Wilhs could write; it's not Willis's. There's 
something about that Willis I don't know. I wonder how he 
and his mother get on together. I don't think he has any sisters." 


Campbell had been much pleased with Charles, and his interest in 
him was not lessened by a hint from Bateman, that his allegiance to 
the English Church was in danger. He called on him in no long time, 
asked him to dinner; and when Charles had returned his invitation, 
and Campbell had accepted it, the beginning of an acquaintance was 
formed between the rectory at Sutton and the family at Boughton, 
which grew into an intimacy as time went on. Campbell was a 
gentleman, a travelled man, of clear head and ardent mind, candid, 
well-read in English divinity, a devoted Anglican, and the incumbent 
of a living so well endowed as almost to be a dignity. Mary was 
pleased at the introduction, as bringing her brother under the in- 
fluence of an intellect which he could not make light of; and, as 
Campbell had a carriage, it was natural that he should wish to save 
Charles the loss of a day's reading and the trouble of a muddy walk 
to the rectory and back, by coming over himself to Boughton. 
Accordingly it so happened that he saw Charles twice at his mother's 
for once that he saw him at Sutton. But whatever came of these 
visits, nothing occurred which particularly bears upon the line of our 
narrative; so let them pass. 

One day Charles called upon Bateman, and, on entering the room, 
was surprised to see him and Campbell at luncheon, and in conversa- 
tion with a third person. There was a moment's surprise and hesita- 
tion on seeing him, before they rose and welcomed him as usual. 



When he looked at the stranger, he felt a slight awkwardness himself, 
wliich he could not control. It was Willis; and apparently submitted 
to the process of reconversion. Charles was evidently dc trop, but 
there was no help for it; so he shook hands with Wilhs, and accepted 
the pressing call of Bateman to seat himself at table, and to share their 
bread and cheese. 

Charles sat down opposite Wilhs, and for a while could not keep 
his eyes from him. At first he had some difficulty in beheving he had 
before him the impetuous youth he had known two years and a half 
before. He had always been silent in general company; but in that 
he was changed as in every thing else. Not that he talked more than 
was natural, but he talked freely and easily. The great change, how- 
ever, was in his appearance and manner. He had lost his bloom and 
youthfulness; his expression was sweeter indeed than before, and very 
placid, but there was a thin line dov^i his face on each side of liis 
mouth; his cheek was wanting in fullness, and he had the air of a man 
of thirty. When he entered into conversation, and became animated, 
liis former self returned. 

"I suppose we may all admire this cream at this season," said 
Charles, as he helped himself, "for we are none of us Devonshire 
men." "It's not pecuhar to Devonshire," answered Campbell; "that 
is, they have it abroad. At Rome there is a sort of cream or cheese 
very like it, and very common." "Will butter and cream keep in 
so warm a climate?" asked Charles; "I fancied oil was the substitute." 
"Rome is not so warm as you fancy," said Willis, "except during 
the summer." "Oil? so it is," said Campbell; "thus we read in 
Scripture of the multiplication of the oil and meal, which seems to 
answer to bread and butter. The oil in Rome is excellent, so clear 
and pale; you can eat it as mUk." "The taste, I suppose, is pecuHar," 
observed Charles. "Just at first," answered Campbell; "but one soon 
gets used to it. All such substances, milk, butter, cheese, oil, have a 
particular taste at first, which use alone gets over. The rich Guernsey 
butter is too much for strangers, while Russians relish whale-oil. 
Most of our tastes are in a measure artificial." "It is certainly so with 
vegetables," said Willis; "when I was a boy, I could not eat beans, 
spinach, asparagus, parsnips, and I think some others." "Therefore 
your hermit's fare is, not only the most natural, but the only naturally 
palatable, I suppose, — a crust of bread and a draught from the 
stream," replied Campbell. "Or the Clerk of Copmanliurst's dry 



peas," said Charles. "The macaroni and grapes of the Neapohtans 
arc as natural and more palatable," said Willis. "Rather they arc a 
luxury," said Batcman. "No," answered Campbell, "not a luxury; 
a luxury is in its very idea a something recherche. Thus Horace speaks 
of the 'peregrina lagois.' What nature yields sponte sua around you, 
however delicious, is no luxury. Wild ducks arc no luxury in 
your old neighbourhood, amid your Oxford fens, Batcman; nor 
grapes at Naples." "Then the old women here are luxurious over 
their sixpenn'rth of tea," said Batcman; "for it comes from China." 
Campbell was posed for an instant. Somehow neither he nor Bale- 
man were quite at their ease, whether with themselves or with each 
other; it might be Charles's sudden intrusion, or something which 
had happened before it. Campbell answered at length that steamers 
and railroads were making strange changes; that time and place v/ere 
vanishing; price would soon be the only measure of luxury. 

"This seems the measure also o£ grasso and magro food in Italy," 
said Willis; "for, I think there are dispensations for butcher's meat in 
Lent, in consequence of the dearness of bread and oil." "This seems 
to shew that the age for abstinences and fastings is past," observed 
Campbell; "for it's absurd to keep Lent on beef and mutton." "Oh, 
Campbell, what arc you saying?" cried Batcman; "past! are wt bound 
by tlieir lax ways in Italy?" "I do certainly tliink," answered Camp- 
bell, "that fasting is unsuitable to this age, in England as well as in 
Rome." "Take care, my fmc fellows," thought Charles; "keep your 
ranks, or you won't secure your prisoner." "What, not fast on 
Friday!" cried Batcman; "we always did so most rigidly at Oxford." 
"It does you credit," answered Campbell; "but I am of Cambridge." 
"But what do you say to the Rubrics and the Calendar?" insisted 
Batcman. "They arc not binding," answered Campbell. "They are 
binding," said Batcman. A pause, as between the rounds of a boxing- 
match. Reding interposed: "Batcman, cut me, please, a bit more of 
your capital bread — home-made, I suppose?" "A thousand pardons !" 
said Batcman: — "not binding? — Pass it, Willis, to him, if you please. 
Yes, it comes from a farmer next door. I'm glad you like it. I repeat, 
they are binding, Campbell." "An odd sort of binding, when they 
have never bound," answered Campbell; "they have existed two or 
three hundred years; when were they ever put in force?" "But there 
they are," said Batcman, "in the Prayer-book." "Yes, and there let 
them lie, and never get out of it," retorted Campbell; "tliere tlicy 



will stay till the end of the story." "Oh, for shame!" cried Bateman; 
"you should aid your mother in a difficulty, and not be like the priest 
and the Levite." "My mother does not wish to be aided," continued 
Campbell. "Oh, how you talk! What shall I do? What can be 
done?" cried poor Bateman. "Done! nothing," said Campbell; "is 
there no such thing as the desuetude of a law? Does not a law cease 
to be binding when it is not enforced? I appeal to Mr. Willis." 
Willis, thus addressed, answered that he was no moral theologian, 
but he had attended some schools; and he believed it was the Catholic 
rule, that when a law had been promulgated, and was not observed 
by the majority, if the legislator knew the state of the case, and yet 
kept silence, he was considered ipso facto to revoke it. "What!" said 
Bateman to Campbell, "do you appeal to the Romish Church?" 
"No," answered Campbell; "I appeal to the whole Catholic Church, 
of which the Church of Rome happens in this particular case to be 
the exponent. It is plain common sense, that if a law is not enforced, 
at length it ceases to be binding. Else it would be quite a tyranny; 
we should not know where we were. The Church of Rome does 
but give expression to this common-sense view." "Well then," said 
Bateman, "I will appeal to the Church of Rome too. Rome is part 
of the Catholic Church as well as we: since, then, the Romish 
Church has ever kept up fastings, the ordinance is not abolished; the 
'greater part' of the Catholic Church has always observed it," "But 
it has not," said Campbell; "it now dispenses with fasts, as you have 

Willis interposed to ask a question. "Do you mean, then," he said 
to Bateman, "that the Church of England and the Church of Rome 
make one Church?" "Most certainly," answered Bateman. "Is it 
possible!" said Willis; "in what sense of the word one?" "In every 
sense," answered Bateman, "but that of intercommunion." "That 
is, I suppose," said Willis, "they are one, except that they have no 
intercourse with each other." Bateman assented. WilUs continued: 
"No intercourse; that is, no social dealings, no consulting or arranging, 
no ordering and obeying, no mutual support; in short, no visible 
union." Bateman still assented. "Well, that is my difficulty," said 
Willis; "I can't understand how two parts can make up one visible 
body, if they are not visibly united; unity implies imion." "I don't 
see that at all," said Bateman; "I don't see that at all. No, Willis, 
you must not expect I shall give that up to you; it is one of our points. 



There is only one visible Church, and therefore the English and 
Romish Churches are both parts of it." 

Campbell saw clearly that Bateman had got into a difficulty, and 
he came to the rescue in his own way. "We must distinguish," he 
said, "the state of the case more exactly. A kingdom may be divided, 
it may be distracted by parties, by dissensions, yet be still a kingdom. 
That, I conceive, is the real condition of the Church; in this way the 
Churches of England, Rome, and Greece are one." "I suppose you 
will grant," said Willis, "that in proportion as a rebellion is strong, 
so is the unity of the kingdom threatened; and if a rebellion is success- 
ful, or if the parties in a civil war manage to divide the power and 
territory between them, then forthwith, instead of one kingdom, we 
have two. Ten or fifteen years since Belgium was part of the 
kingdom of the Netherlands; I suppose you would not call it part of 
the kingdom now? This seems the case of the Churches of Rome and 
England." "Still a kingdom may be in a state of decay," replied 
Campbell; "consider the case of the Turkish Empire at tliis moment. 
The union between its separate portions is so languid, that each 
separate Pasha may ahnost be termed a separate sovereign; still it is 
one kingdom." "The Church, then, at present," said Willis, "is a 
kingdom tending to dissolution." "Certainly it is," answered Camp- 
bell. "And v/ill ultimately fail?" asked Willis. "Certainly," said 
Campbell; "when the end comes, according to our Lord's saying, 
'When the Son of man cometh, shall he fmd faith on the earth?' 
Just as in the case of the chosen people, the sceptre failed from Judah 
when the Shiloh came." "Surely the Church has failed alread)^ before 
the end," said Willis, "according to the view you take of fail- 
ing. How can any separation be more complete than exists at present 
between Rome, Greece, and England?" "They might excommuni- 
cate each other," said Campbell. "Then you are willing," said 
Willis, "to assign beforehand something defmitc, the occurrence of 
which will constitute a real separation." "Don't do so," said Reding 
to Campbell; "it is dangerous; don't commit yourself in a moral 
question; for then, if the thing specified did occur, it would be 
difficult to see our way." "No," said Willis; "you certainly would 
be in a difficulty; but you would find )^our way out, I know. In that 
case you would choose some other iihiiiiattim as your test of schism. 
There would be," he added, speaking widi some emotion, " 'in the 
lowest depth a lower still.' " 



The concluding words were out of keeping with the tone of the 
conversation liitherto, and fairly excited Bateman, who, for some 
time, had been an impatient hstener. "That's a dangerous line, 
Campbell," he said, "it is indeed; I can't go along with you. It will 
never do to say that the Church is failing; no, it never fails. It is 
always strong, and pure, and perfect, as the Prophets describe it. 
Look at its cathedrals, abbey-churches, and other sanctuaries, these 
fitly typify it." "My dear Bateman," answered Campbell, "I am as 
willing as you to maintain the fulfilment of the prophecies made to 
the Church, but we must allow the fact that the branches of the 
Church are divided, wliile we maintain the doctrine that the Church 
should be one." "I don't see that at all," answered Bateman; "no, 
we need not allow it. There's no such tiling as Churches, there's but 
one Church every where, and it is not divided. It is merely the out- 
ward forms, appearances, manifestations of the Church that are 
divided. The Church is one as much as ever it was. Just as in the 
Consecrated Bread, the material substance is broken, but the Presence 
of Christ remains one and the same." "That will never do," said 
Campbell; and he stood up before the fire in a state of discomfort. 
"Nature never intended you for a controversialist, my good Bate- 
man," he added to himself. "It is as I thought," said Willis; "Bateman, 
you are describing an invisible Church. You hold the indefectibihty 
of the invisible Church, not of the visible." 

"They are in a fix," thought Charles, "but I will do my best to 
tow old Bateman out;" so he began: "No," he said, "Bateman only 
means, that one Church presents, in some particular points, a different 
appearance from another; but it does not follow that, in fact, they 
have not a visible agreement too. All difference imphes agreement; 
the Enghsh and Roman Churches agree visibly and differ visibly. 
Think of the different styles of architecture, and you will see, Wilhs, 
what he means. A church is a church all the world over, it is visibly 
one and the same, and yet how different is church from church ! Our 
churches are Gothic, the southern churches are Palladian. How 
different is a basihca from York Cathedral! yet they visibly agree 
together. No one would mistake either for a mosque or a Jewish 
temple. We may quarrel wliich is the better style; one likes the 
basilica, another calls it pagan." "That / do," said Bateman. "A httle 
extreme," said Campbell, "a little extreme, as usual. The basihca is 
beautiful in its place. There are two things which Gothic cannot 



shew — the hne or forest of round pohshed columns, and the grace- 
ful dome, circling above one's head like the blue heaven itself" 

All parties were glad at this diversion from the religious dispute; 
so they continued the lighter conversation which had succeeded it 
with considerable earnestness. "I fear I must confess," said Willis, 
"that the churches at Rome do not affect me like the Gothic; I 
reverence them, I feel awe in them, but I love, I feel a sensible pleasure 
at the sight of the Gothic arch." "There are other reasons for that in 
Rome," answered Campbell; "the churches are so unfinished, so 
untidy. Rome is a city of ruins; the Christian temples are built on 
ruins, and they themselves are generally dilapidated or decayed; thus 
they are ruins of ruins." Campbell was on an easier subject than that 
of Anglo-Catholicism, and, no one interrupting him, he proceeded 
flowingly: "In Rome you have huge high buttresses in the place of 
columns, and these not cased with marble, but of cold white plaster 
or paint. They impart an indescribably forlorn look to the churches." 
Willis said he often wondered what took so many foreigners, that is 
Protestants, to Rome; it was so dreary, so melancholy a place; a 
number of old, crumbling, shapeless brick masses, the ground un- 
levelled, the straight causeways fenced by high monotonous walls, 
the points of attraction stragghng over broad solitudes, faded palaces, 
trees universally pollarded, streets ankle-deep in filth, or eyes-and- 
mouth deep in a cloud of whirhng dust and straws; the climate most 
capricious, the evening air most perilous. Naples was an earthly 
paradise; but Rome was a city of faith. To seek the shrines it con- 
tained was a veritable penance, as was fitting. He understood 
Catholics going there; he was perplexed at Protestants. "There is a 
spell about the liniina Apostoloriim" said Charles; "St. Peter and St. 
Paul are not there for nothnig." "There is a more tangible reason," 
said Campbell; "it is a place where persons of all nations are to be 
found; no society is so varied as the Roman. You go to a ball- 
room; your host, whom you bow to in the first apartment, is a 
Frenchman; as you advance, your eye catches Massena's grand- 
daughter in conversation with Mustapha Pasha; you soon fmd your- 
self seated between a Yankee chart^c d'affaires and a Russian colonel; 
and an Englishman is playing the fool in front of you." 

Here Campbell looked at his watch, and then at WilHs, ^^'hoIn he 
had driven over to Melford to return Batcmaii's call. It was time tor 
them to be going, or they would be overtaken by tlie evening. 



Bateman, who had remained in a state of great dissatisfaction since he 
last spoke, which had not been for a quarter of an hour past, did not 
find himself in spirits to try much to detain either them or Reding; 
so he was speedily left to himself. He drew his chair to the fire, and 
for a while felt nothing more than a heavy load of disgust. After a 
time, however, his thoughts began to draw themselves out into 
series, and took the following form: "It's too bad, too bad," he said; 
"Campbell is a very clever man — far cleverer than I am; a well-read 
man, too; but he has no tact, no tact. It is deplorable; Reding's 
coming was one misfortune; however, we might have got over that, 
we might have even turned it to an advantage; but to use such 
arguments as he did ! how could he hope to convince him? he made 
us both a mere laugliing-stock. . . . How did he throw off? Oh, he 
said that the Rubrics were not binding. Who ever heard such a 
thing — at least from an Anglo-Catholic? Why pretend to be a good 
Catholic with such views? Better call himself a Protestant or Erastian 
at once, and one would know where to find him. Such a bad im- 
pression it must make on Willis; I saw it did; he could hardly keep 
from smiling: but Campbell has no tact at all. He goes on, on, his 
own way, bringing out his own thoughts, which are very clever, 
original generally, but never considering his company. And he's so 
positive, so knock-me-down; it is quite unpleasant, I don't know how 
to sit it sometimes. Oh, it is a cruel thing this — the effect must be 
wretched. Poor Willis ! I declare I don't think we have moved him 
one inch, I really don't. I fancied at one time he was even laughing 
at me. . . . What was it he said afterwards? there was something else, 
I know. I recollect; that the Catholic Church was in ruins, had 
broken to pieces. What a paradox! who'll believe that but he? I 
declare I am so vexed I don't know what to be at." He jumped up, 
and began walking to and fro, "But all this is because the Bishops 
won't interfere; one can't say it, that's the worst, but they are at the 
bottom of the evil. They have but to put out their little finger, and 
enforce the Rubrics, and then the whole controversy would be at an 
end. . . I knew there was something else. He said we need not fast! 
But Cambridge men are always peculiar, they always have some 
whim or other; he ought to have been at Oxford, and we should 
have made a man of him. He has many good points, but he runs 
theories, and rides hobbies, and drives consequences, to death." 
Here he was interrupted by his clerk, who told him that John 



Tims had taken liis oath that his wife should not be churched before 
the congregation, and was half-minded to take his infant to the 
Methodists for baptism; and liis thoughts took a different direction. 


The winter had been on the whole dry and pleasant, but in February 
and March the rains were so profuse, and the winds so high, that 
Bateman saw very little of either Charles or WiUis. He did not 
abandon his designs on the latter, but it was an anxious question how 
best to conduct them. As to Campbell, he was resolved to exclude 
him from any participation in them; but he hesitated about Reding. 
He had found him far less definitely Roman than he expected, and he 
conjectured that, by making him his confidant and employing him 
against Willis, he really might succeed in giving him an Anglican 
direction. Accordingly, he told him of his anxiety to restore Willis 
to "the Church of his baptism;" and, not discouraged by Charles's 
advice to let well alone, and that he might succeed in drawing him 
from Rome without reclaiming him to Anglicanism, the weather 
having improved, he asked the two to dinner on one of the later 
Sundays in Lent. He determined to make a field-day of it; and, with 
that view, he carefully got up some of the most popular works against 
the Church of Rome. After much thought, he determined to direct 
his attack on some of the "practical evils," as he considered them, of 
"Romanism;" as being more easy of proof than points of doctrine 
and history, in which too, for what he knew, Willis might by this 
time be better read than himself. He considered, too, that, if Willis 
had been at all shaken in his new faith when he was abroad, it was by 
the practical exemplification wliich he had had before his e)TS, of 
the issue of its pecuhar doctrines when freely carried out. Moreover, 
to tell the truth, our good friend had not a very clear apprehension 
how much doctrine he held in common with the Church of Rome, 
or where he was to stop in the several details of Pope Pius's Creed; 
in consequence, it was evidently safer to confine his attack to matters 
of practice. 

"You see, Willis," he said, as they sat down to table, "I have given 
you abstinence food, not knowing whether you avail yoursclt ot the 



dispensation. We shall cat meat ourselves; but don't think we don't 
fast at proper times; I don't agree with Campbell at all; we don't 
fast, however, on Sunday. That is our rule, and, I take it, a primitive 
one." Wilhs answered that he did not know how the primitive 
usage lay, but he supposed that both of them allowed that matters of 
discipline might be altered by the proper authority. "Certainly," 
answered Bateman, "so that every thing is done consistently with the 
inspired text of Scripture;" — he stopped, itching, if he could, to bring 
in some great subject, but not seeing how. He saw he must rush in 
niedias res; so he added, — "with which inspired text, I presume, what 
one sees in foreign churches is not very consistent." "What, I 
suppose you mean are antependia, reredosses, stone-altars, copes, and 
mitres," said Willis, innocently; "which certainly are not in Scrip- 
ture." "True," said Bateman; "but these, though not in Scripture, 
are not inconsistent with Scripture. They are all very right; but the 
worship of Saints, especially the Blessed Virgin, and of relics, the 
gabbling over prayers in an unknown tongue. Indulgences, and the 
infrequent communions, I suspect are directly unscriptural." "My 
dear Bateman," said Willis, "you seem to hve in an air of controversy; 
so it was at Oxford; there was always argument going on in your 
rooms. Religion is a thing to enjoy, not to quarrel about; give me 
a shce more of that leg of mutton." "Yes, Bateman," said Reding, 
"you must let us enjoy our feed, Wilhs deserves it, for I beheve he 
has had a fair walk to-day. Have you not been all the way to Seaton 
and back? a matter of fourteen miles, and hilly ground; it can't be 
dry, too, in parts yet." "True," said Bateman; "take a glass of wine, 
Willis; it's good Madeira; an aunt of mine sent it me." "He puts us 
to shame," said Charles, "who have stepped into church from our 
bed-room; he has trudged a pilgrimage to liis." "I'm not saying a 
word against our dear friend WiUis," said Bateman; "it was merely 
a point on which I thought he would agree with me, that there were 
many corruptions of worship in foreign Churches." At last, when his 
silence was observable, Willis said, that he supposed that persons who 
were not Cathohcs could not tell v/hat were corruptions, and what 
not. Here the subject dropped again; for Wilhs did not seem in a 
humour, perhaps he was too tired, to continue it. So they eat and 
drank with nothing but very common-place remarks to season their 
meal withal, till the cloth was removed. The table was then shoved 
back a bit, and the three young men got over the fire, which Bateman 



made burn brightly. Two of them at least had deserved some re- 
laxation, and they were the two who were to be opponent and 
respondent in the approaching argument; one had had a long walk; 
the other had had two full services, a baptism, and a funeral. The 
armistice continued a good quarter of an hour, which Charles and 
Willis spent in easy conversation; till Bateman, who had been prim- 
ing himself the while with his controversial points, found himself 
ready for the assault, and opened it in form. 

"Come, my dear Willis," he said; "I can't let you off so; I am sure 
what you saw abroad scandalised you." This was almost rudely put: 
Willis said that, had he been a Protestant, he might have been easily 
shocked; but he was a Catholic; and he drew an almost imperceptible 
sigh. Besides, had he had a temptation to be shocked, he should have 
recollected that he was in a Church, which in all greater matters 
could not err. He had not come to the Church to criticise, he said, 
but to learn. "I don't know," he said, "what is meant by saying that 
we ought to have faith, that faith is a grace, that faith is the means of 
our salvation, if there is nothing to exercise it. Faith goes against 
sight; well, then, unless there are sights which offend you, there is 
nothing for it to go against." Bateman called this a paradox; if so, 
he said, why don't we become Mahometans? we should have enough 
to believe then. "Why, just consider," said Wilhs; "supposing your 
friend, an honourable man, is accused of theft, and appearances are 
against him, w^ould you at once admit the charge? It would be a fair 
trial of your faith in him; and if he were able in the event satisfactorily 
to rebut it, I don't think he would thank you, should you have waited 
for his explanation before you took his part, instead of knowing him 
too well to suspect it. If, then, I come to the Church with faith in 
her, whatever I see there, even if it surprises me, is but a trial of my 
faith." "That is true," said Charles; "but there must be some ground 
for faith; we do not believe without reason; and the question is, 
whether what the Church does, as in worship, is not a fair matter to 
form a judgment upon, for or against." "A Catholic," said Willis, 
"as I was when I was abroad, has already found his grounds, for he 
believes; but for one who has not — I mean a Protestant— I certainly 
consider it is very uncertain whether he will take the view of Cathohc 
worship wliich he ought to take. It may easil)' happen that he will not 
understand it." "Yet persons have before now been converted by the 
sight of Catholic worship," said Reding. "Certainly," answered 



Willis; "God works iii a thousand ways; there is much in Catholic 
worsliip to strike a Protestant, but there is much which will perplex 
him; for instance, what Bateman has alluded to, our devotion to the 
Blessed Virgin." 

"Surely," said Bateman, "this is a plain matter; it is quite impossible 
that the worship paid by Roman Catholics to the Blessed Mary 
should not interfere with the supreme adoration due to the Creator 
alone." "This is just an instance in point," said Willis; "you see you 
are judging a priori; you know nothing of the state of the case from 
experience, but you say, 'It must be; it can't be otherwise.' This is 
the way a Protestant judges, and comes to one conclusion; a Catholic, 
who acts, and does not speculate, feels the truth of the contrary." 
"Some things," said Bateman, "are so like axioms, as to supersede 
trial. On the other hand, famiharity is very likely to hide from people 
the real evil of certain practices." "How strange it is," answered 
Wilhs, "that you don't perceive that this is the very argument which 
various sects urge against you Anglicans ! For instance, the Unitarian 
says that the doctrine of the Atonement must lead to our looking at 
the Father, not as a God of love, but of vengeance only; and he calls 
the doctrine of eternal punishment immoral. And so, the Wesleyan 
or Baptist declares that it is an absurdity to suppose any one can hold 
the doctrine of baptismal regeneration, and really be spiritual; that 
the doctrine must have a numbing effect on the mind, and destroy its 
single reliance on the atonement of Christ. I will take another 
instance: many a good Cathohc, who never came across Anglicans, 
is as utterly unable to realise your position as you are to reahse his. 
He cannot make out how you can be so illogical as not to go forward 
or backward; nay he pronounces your professed state of mind im- 
possible; he does not believe in its existence. I may deplore your state; 
I may think you illogical and worse; but I know it is a state which 
does exist. As, then, I admit that a person can profess one Catholic 
Church, yet without believing that the Roman Communion is it; 
so I put it to you, even as an argumentum ad homincm, whether you 
ought not to believe that we can honour our Blessed Lady as the first 
of creatures, without interfering with the honour due to God. At 
most, you ought to call us only illogical, you ought not to deny that 
we do what we say we do." "I make a distinction," said Bateman: 
"it is quite possible, I fully grant, for an educated Romanist to 
distinguish between the devotion paid by him to the Blessed Virgin, 



and the worship of God; I only say that the niiiltitudc will not 
distinguish." "I know you say so," answered Willis; "and still, I 
repeat, not from experience, but on an a priori ground. You say, 
not 'it is so,' but 'it must be so.' " 

There was a pause in the conversation, and then Batcman recom- 
menced it. "You may give us some trouble," said he, laughing, "but 
we are resolved to have you back, my good Willis. Now consider, 
you are a lover of truth: is that Church from heaven which tells 
untruths?" Willis laughed too; "We must defme the words truth 
and untruth" he said; "but, subject to that dcfmition, I have no 
hesitation in enunciating the truism, that a Church is not from 
heaven which tells untruths." "Of course, you can't deny the pro- 
position," said Batcman; "well then, is it not quite certain that in 
Rome itself there are relics which all learned men now give up, and 
which yet are venerated as relics? For instance, Campbell tells me 
that the reputed heads of St. Peter and St. Paul, in some great Roman 
basilica, are certainly not the heads of the Apostles, because the head 
of St. Paul was found with his body, after the fire at his church some 
years since." "I don't know about the particular instance," answered 
Willis; "but you are opening a large question, which cannot be settled 
in a few words. If I must speak, I should say this: I should begin with 
the assumption that the existence of relics is not improbable; do you 
grant that?'' "I grant nothing," said Bateman; "but go on." "Why 
you have plenty of heathen relics, which you admit. What is Pompeii 
and all that is found there, but one vast heathen relic? why should 
there not be Christian relics in Rome and elsewhere, as well as 
pagan?" "Of course, of course," said Bateman. "Well, and relics 
may be identified. You have the tomb of the Scipios, with their 
names on them. Did you find ashes in one of them, I suppose you 
would be pretty certain that they were the ashes of a Scipio." "To 
the point," cried Batcman, "quicker." "St. Peter," continued Willis, 
"speaks of David, 'whose sepulchre is with you unto this da)'.' 
Therefore it's nothing wonderful that a religious relic should be 
preserved eleven hundred years, and identified to be such, when a 
nation makes a point of preserving it." "This is beating about the 
bush," cried Bateman impatiently; "get on quicker." "Let nic go on 
my own way," said Willis; "then there is nothing improbable, 
considering Christians have always been very careful about the 
memorials of sacred things — " "You've not proved that," said 



Bateman, fearing that some manoeuvre, he could not tell what, was in 
progress. "Well," said Willis, "you don't doubt it, I suppose, at 
least from the fourth century, when SaiQt Helena brought from the 
Holy Land the memorials of our Lord's passion, and lodged them at 
Rome in the Basilica, which she thereupon called Santa Croce. As 
to the previous times of persecution. Christians of course had fewer 
opportunities of shewing a similar devotion, and liistorical records 
are less copious; yet, in spite of tliis, its existence is as certain as any 
fact of history. They collected the bones of Saint Polycarp, the 
immediate disciple of St. Jolin, after he was burnt; as of St. Ignatius 
before him, after his exposure to the beasts; and so in like manner the 
bones or blood of all the martyrs. No one doubts it; I never heard of 
any one who did. So the disciples took up the Baptist's body, — it 
would have been strange if they had not, — and buried it 'in the 
sepulchre,' as the Evangelist says, speaking of it as known. Now, 
why should they not in hke manner, and even with greater reason, 
have rescued the bodies of St. Peter and St, Paul, if it were only for 
decent burial? Is it then wonderful, if the bodies were rescued, that 
they should be afterwards preserved?" "But they can't be in two 
places at once," said Bateman. "But hear me," answered Wallis; 
"I say then, if there is a tradition that in a certain place there is a relic 
of an apostle, there is at first sight a probability that it is there; the 
presumption is in its favour. Can you deny it? Well, if the same 
relic is reported to be in two places, then one or the other tradition 
is erroneous, and the prima facie force of both traditions is weakened; 
but I should not actually discard either at once; each has its force 
still, though neither so great a force. Now, suppose there are 
circumstances which confirm the one, the other is weakened still 
further, and at length the probability of its truth may become 
evanescent; and when a fair interval has passed, and there is no 
change of evidence in its favour, then it is at length given up. But 
all this is a work of time; meanwhile, it is not a bit more of 
an objection to the doctrine and practice of relic-veneration that a 
body is said to He in two places, than to general history that Charles 
the First was reported by some authorities to be buried at Windsor, 
by others at Westminster; which question was decided just before 
our times. It is a question of evidence, and must be treated as such." 
"But if St. Paul's head was found under his own church," said 
Bateman, "it's pretty clear it is not preserved at the other Basilica." 



"True," answered Willis; "but grave questions of this kind cannot 
be decided in a moment. I don't know myself the circumstances 
of the case, and do but take your account of it. It has to be proved, 
then, that it was St. Paul's head which was found with his body; 
for, since he was beheaded, it would not be attached to it. This is 
one question, and others would arise. It is not easy to settle a question 
of history. Questions which seem settled revive. It is very well for 
secular historians to give up a tradition or testimony at once, and for 
a generation to oh-oh it; but the Church cannot do so; she has a 
religious responsibihty, and must move slowly. Take the chance of 
its turning out that the heads at St. John Lateran were, after all, those 
of the two apostles, and that she had cast them aside. Questions, I 
say, revive. Did not Walpolc prove to admiration that the two little 
princes had a place in the procession at King Richard's coronation? 
yet, some years ago, two skeletons of boys were found in the Tower 
at the very place where the children of Edward were said to have 
been murdered and buried by the Duke of Gloucester. I speak from 
memory, but the general fact which I am illustrating is undeniable. 
Ussher, Pearson, and Voss proved that St. Ignatius's shorter Epistles 
were genuine; and now, after the lapse of two centuries, the question 
is at least plausibly mooted again." 

There was another pause, wliile Bateman thought over his facts 
and arguments, but nothing was forthcoming at the moment. WiUis 
continued: "You must consider also that reputed rehcs, such as you 
have mentioned, are generally in tlie custody of religious bodies, who 
are naturally very jealous of attempts to prove them spurious, and, 
with a pardonable esprit dc corps, defend them with all their might, 
and oppose obstacles in the way of an adverse decision; just as your 
own society defends, most worthily, the fair fame of your foundress 
Queen Boadicea. Were the case given against her by every tribunal 
in the land, your valiant and loyal Head would not abandon her; it 
would break his magnanimous heart; he would die in her service 
as a good knight. Both from religious duty, then, and from human 
feeling, it is a very arduous tiling to get a received relic disowned." 
"Well," said Bateman, "to my poor judgment it does seem a dis- 
honesty to keep up inscriptions, for instance, which every one knows 
not to be true." "My dear Bateman, that is begging the question," 
said Willis; "ci'cry body does fwt know it; it is a point in course of 
settlement, but not settled; you may say that individuals have settled 

N — T 289 


it, or it may be settled, but it is not settled yet. Parallel cases happen 
frequently in civil matters, and no one speaks harshly of existing 
individuals or bodies in consequence. Till lately the Monument in 
London bore an inscription to the effect that London had been burned 
by us poor Papists. A hundred years ago. Pope, the poet, had called 
the 'column' 'a tall bully,' which 'lifts its head and lies.' Yet the 
inscription was not removed till a few years since — I believe when the 
Monument was repaired. That was an opportunity for erasing a 
calumny which, till then, had not been definitely pronounced to be 
such, and not pronounced, in deference to the prima facie authority 
of a statement contemporaneous with the calamity which it recorded. 
There is never a. point of time at which you can say, 'The tradition is 
now disproved.' When a received belief has been apparently exposed, 
the question lies dormant, for the opportunity of fresh arguments; 
when none appear, then at length an accident, such as the repair of 
a building, dispatches it." 

"We have somehow got off the subject," thought Bateman; and 
he sat fidgeting about to find the thread of liis argument. Reding 
put in an objection; he said that no one knew or cared about the 
inscription on the Monument, but religious veneration was paid to 
the two heads at St. John Lateran. "Right," said Bateman, "that's 
just what I meant to say." "Well," answered Willis, "as to the parti- 
cular case, mind, I am taking your account of it, for I don't profess 
to know how the matter lies. But let us consider the extent of the 
mistake. There is no doubt in the world that at least they are the 
heads of martyrs; the only question is this, and no more, whether 
they are the very heads of the two Apostles. From time immemorial 
they have been preserved upon or under the altar as the heads of saints 
or martyrs; and it requires to know very little of Christian antiquities 
to be perfectly certain that they really are saintly relics, even though 
unknown. Hence the sole mistake is, that Catholics have venerated, 
what ought to be venerated any how, under a wrong name; perhaps 
have expected miracles, which they had a right to expect, and have 
experienced them, as they might well experience them, because they 
tucre the relics of saints, though they were in error as to what saints. 
This surely is no great matter." "You have made three assumptions," 
said Bateman; "first, that none but the relics of saints have been 
placed under altars; secondly, that these relics were always there; 
tliirdly — tliirdly — I know there was a third — let me see" — "Most 



true," said Willis, interrupting him, "and I will help you to some 
others. I have assumed that there are Christians in the world called 
Catholics; again, that they think it right to venerate relics: but, my 
dear Bateman, these were the grounds, and not the point of our 
argument; and if they are to be questioned, it must be in a distinct 
dispute: but I really think we have had enough of disputation." 
"Yes, Bateman," said Charles; "it is getting late. I must think of 
returning. Give us some tea, and let us be gone." "Go home?" cried 
Bateman; "why, we have just done dinner, and done nothing else 
as yet; I had a great deal to say." However, he rang the bell for tea, 
and had the table cleared. 


The conversation flagged; Bateman was again busy with his memory; 
and he was getting impatient too; time was slipping away, and no 
blow struck; moreover, Willis was beginning to gape, and Charles 
seemed impatient to be released. "These Romanists put things so 
plausibly," he said to himself, "but very unfairly, most unfairly; one 
ought to be up to their dodges. I dare say, if the truth were known, 
Willis has had lessons; he looks so demure; I dare say he is keeping 
back a great deal, and playing upon my ignorance. Who knows? 
perhaps he's a concealed Jesuit." It was an awful thought, and 
suspended the course of his reflections some seconds. "I wonder 
what he does really think; it's so diflicult to get at the bottom of 
them; they won't tell tales, and they are under obedience; one never 
knows when to believe them. I suspect he has been woefully dis- 
appointed with Romanism; he looks so thin; but of course he won't 
say so; it hurts a man's pride, and he likes to be consistent; he doesn't 
like to be laughed at, and so he makes the best of things. I wish I 
knew how to treat him; I was wrong in having Reding here; of 
course Willis would not be confidential before a third person. He's 
like the fox that lost his tail. It was bad tact in me; I see it now; what 
a thing it is to have tact! it requires very delicate tact. There are so 
many things I wished to say, about Indulgences, about their so seldom 
communicating; I think I must ask him about the Mass." So, after 
fidgeting a good deal within, while he was ostensibly employed in 
making tea, he commenced his last assault. 



"Well, we shall have you back again among us by next Christmas, 
WiUis," he said; "I can't give you greater law; I'm certain of it; it takes 
time, but slow and sure. What a joyful time it wiU be ! I can't tell what 
keeps you; you are doing nothing; you are flung into a comer; you 
are wasting life. Whatkee^s you?" Willis looked odd; then he simply 
answered, "Grace." Bateman Vv^as startled, but recovered himself; 
"Heaven forbid," he said, "that I should treat these things lightly, or in- 
terfere with you unduly. I know, my dear friend, what a serious fellow 
you are; but do tell me, just tell me, how can you justify the Mass, as it 
is performed abroad; how can it be called a 'reasonable service,' when 
all parties conspire to gabble it over, as if it mattered not a jot who 
attended to it, or even understood it? Speak, man, speak," he added, 
gently shaking him by the shoulder. "These are such difficult ques- 
tions," answered Willis; "must I speak? Such difficult questions," he 
continued, rising into a more animated maimer, and kindling as he 
went on; "I mean, people view them so differently; it is so difficult 
to convey to one person the idea of another. The idea of worship 
is different in the Catholic Church from the idea of it in your Church; 
for, in truth, the religions are different. Don't deceive yourself, my 
dear Bateman," he said tenderly, "it is not that ours is your religion 
carried a little farther, — a little too far, as you would say. No, they 
differ in kind, not in degree; ours is one religion, yours another. And 
when the time comes, and come it will, for you, alien as you are now, 
to submit yourself to the gracious yoke of Christ, then, my dearest 
Bateman, it will be faith which will enable you to bear the ways 
and usages of Catholics, wliich else might perhaps startle you. Else, 
the habits of years, the associations in your mind of a certain outward 
behaviour with real inward acts of devotion, might embarrass you, 
when you had to conform yourself to other habits, and to create for 
yourself other associations. But this faith, of which I speak, the great 
gift of God, will enable you in that day to overcome yourself, and to 
submit, as your judgment, your will, your reason, your affections, 
so your tastes and likings, to the rule and usage of the Church. Ah, 
that faith should be necessary in such a matter, and that what is so 
natural and becoming under the circumstances, should have need of 
an explanation! I declare, to me," he said, and he clasped his hands 
on his knees, and looked forward as if soliloquising; "to me nothing 
is so consoling, so piercing, so thrilling, so overcoming as the Mass, 
said as it is among us. I could attend Masses for ever, and not be tired. 



It is not a mere form of words, — it is a great action, the greatest 
action that can be on earth. It is, not the invocation merely, but, if 
I dare use the word, the evocation of the Eternal. He becomes present 
on the altar in flesh and blood, before whom angels bow and devils 
tremble. This is that awful event which is the end, and is the inter- 
pretation, of every part of the solemnity. Words are necessary, but as 
means, not as ends; they are not mere addresses to the throne of grace, 
they are instruments of what is far higher, of consecration, of sacrifice. 
They hurry on, as if impatient to fulfil their mission. Quickly they 
go, the whole is quick; for they are all parts of one integral action. 
Quickly they go; for they are awful words of sacrifice, they are a 
work too great to delay upon; as when it was said in the beginning, 
'What thou doest, do quickly.' Quickly they pass; for the Lord 
Jesus goes with them, as He passed along the lake in the days of his 
flesh, quickly calhng first one and then another. Quickly they pass; 
because as the lightning which sliineth from one part of the heaven 
unto the other, so is the coming of the Son of man. Quickly they 
pass; for they are the words of the Lord descending in the cloud, and 
proclaiming the Name of the Lord as He passes by, 'The Lord, the 
Lord God, merciful and gracious, long-suflering, and abundant in 
goodness and truth.' And as Moses on the mountain, so we too 'make 
haste and bow our heads to the earth, and worship.' So we, all 
around, each in his place, look out for the great Advent, 'waiting for 
the moving of the water.' Each in his place, with his own heart, with 
his own wants, with his own thoughts, with liis own intention, with 
his own prayers, separate but concordant, watching what is going on, 
watching its progress, uniting in its consummation;— not painfully 
and hopelessly following a hard form of prayer from beginning to 
end, but like a concert of musical instruments, each diflcrcnt, but 
concurring in a sweet harmony, we take our part with God's priest, 
supporting him, yet guided by him. There are httle children there, 
and old men, and simple labourers, and students in seminaries, priests 
preparing for Mass, priests making their thanksgiving; there are 
innocent maidens, and there are penitents; but out of these many 
minds rises one eucharistic hynm, and the great Action is the measure 
and the scope of it. And oh, my dear Batcman," he added, turning to 
him, "you ask me whether this is not a formal unreasonable service. 
It is wonderful!" he cried, rising up, "quite wonderful. When will 
these dear good people be enhghtened, O Sapictitia,fortitcr sitavitcrqiic 



disponcns omnia, O Adonai, O Clavis David et Exspectatio gentium, 
veni ad salvandum nos, Domine Deus noster." 

Now, at least, there was no mistaking Willis. Bateman stared, 
and was almost frightened at a burst of enthusiasm which he had been 
far from expecting. "Why, Willis," he said, "it is not true, then, after 
all, what we heard, that you were somewhat dubious, shaky, in your 
adherence to Romanism? I'm sure I beg your pardon; I would not 
for the world have annoyed you, had I known the truth." Willis's 
face still glowed, and he looked as youthful and radiant as he had 
been two years before. There was nothing ungentle in his impetu- 
osity; a smile, almost a laugh, was on his face, as if he was half ashamed 
of his own warmth; but this took nothing from its evident sincerity. 
He seized Bateman's two hands, before the latter knew where he was, 
lifted him up out of liis seat, and raising his own mouth close to his 
ear, said in a low voice, "I would to God, that not only thou, but 
also all who hear me this day, were both almost and altogether such 
as I am, except these bonds." Then, reminding liim it had grovv^n 
late, and bidding him good night, he left the room with Charles. 

Bateman remained a while with his back to the fire after the door 
had closed; presently he began to give expression to his thoughts. 
"Well," he said, "he's a brick, a regular brick; he has almost affected 
me myself What a way those fellows have with them ! I declare his 
touch has made my heart beat; how catching enthusiasm is ! Any one 
but I might really have been unsettled. He is a real good fellow; what 
a pity we have not got him! he's just the sort of man we want. He'd 
make a splendid Anglican; he'd convert half the dissenters in the 
country. Well, we shall have them in time; we must not be im- 
patient. But the idea of his talking of converting mel 'almost and 
altogether!' I a Romanist! By the by, what did he mean by 'except 
these bonds?' " He sat ruminating on the difficulty; at first he was 
inclined to tliink that, after all, he might have some misgiving about 
his position; then he thought that perhaps he had a hair-shirt or a 
catinella on him; and lastly he came to the conclusion that he had just 
meant nothing at all, and did but finish the quotation he had begun. 

After passing some little time in this state, he looked towards the 
tea-tray; poured himself out another cup of tea; ate a bit of toast; 
took the coals off the fire; blew out one of the candles, and taking 
up the other, left the parlour, and wound hke an omnibus up the 
steep twisting staircase to his bedroom. 



Meanwhile Willis and Charles were proceeding to their respective 
homes. For a while they had to pursue the same padi, which they did 
in silence. Charles had been moved far more than Batemaii, or rather 
touched, by the enthusiasm of his Catholic friend, though, from a 
difficulty in finding language to express himself, and a fear of being 
carried off his legs, he had kept his feelings to himself. When they 
were about to part, Willis said to him in a subdued tone, "You are 
soon going to Oxford, dearest Reding; Oh, that you were one with 
us! You have it in you. I have thought of you at Mass many times. 
Our priest has said Mass for you. Oh, my dear friend, quench not 
God's grace; listen to His call; you have had what others have not. 
What you want is faith. I suspect you have quite proof enough; 
enough to be converted on. But faith is a gift; pray for that great 
gift, without which you camiot come to the Church; without which," 
and he paused, "you camiot walk aright when you arc in the Church. 
And now farewell! alas, our path divides: all is easy to him that 
bclieveth. May God give you that gift of faith, as He has given me! 
Farewell again; who knows when I may see you next, and where? 
may it be in the courts of the true Jerusalem, the Queen of Saints, 
the Holy Roman Church, the Mother of us all!" He drew Charles 
to him, and kissed his cheek, and was gone before Charles had time 
to say a word. 

Yet Charles could not have spoken, had he had ever so much 
opportunity. He set oft at a brisk pace, cutting down with his stick 
the twigs and brambles which the pale twilight discovered in his path. 
It seemed as if the kiss of his friend had conveyed into his own soul 
the enthusiasm which his words had betokened. He felt himself 
possessed, he knew not how, by a high superhuman power, which 
seemed able to push through mountains, and to walk the sea. With 
winter around him, he felt within like the springtide, when all is 
new and bright. He perceived that he had found, what indeed he had 
never sought, because he had never known what it was, but what he 
had ever wanted, — a soul sympathetic with his own. He felt he was 
no longer alone in the world, though he was losing that true congenial 
mind the very moment he had found him. Was this, he asked him- 
self, the communion of Saints? Alas ! how could it be, when he was 
in one communion, and Willis in another? "O mighty Mother!" 
burst from his lips; he quickened his pace almost to a trot, scaling 
the steep ascents and diving into the hollows which lay between him 


and Bougliton. "O niighty Mother," he still said, half unconsciously; 
"O niighty Mother! I come, O mighty Mother! I come, but I am 
far from home. Spare me a httle; I come with what speed I may, 
but I am slow of foot, and not as others, O mighty Mother." By the 
time he had walked two miles in this excitement, bodily and mental, 
he felt himself, as was not wonderful, considerably exhausted. He 
slackened his pace, and gradually came to himself; but still he went 
on, as if mechanically, "O mighty Mother." Suddenly he cried, 
"Hallo ! where did I get those words? Willis did not use them. Well, 
I must be on my guard against these wild ways. Any one can be 
an enthusiast; enthusiasm is not truth. . . . O mighty Mother! . . . 
Alas, I know where my heart is ! but I must go by reason. . . . O 
mighty Mother!" 


The time came at length for Charles to return to Oxford; but during 
the last month scruples had risen in his mind, whether, with liis 
present feelings, he could consistently even present himself for his 
examination. No subscription was necessary for his entrance into 
the schools, but he felt that the honours of the class-hst were only 
intended for those who were hona fde adherents of the Church of 
England. He laid his difficulty before Carlton, who in consequence 
did his best to ascertain thoroughly his present state of mind. ' It 
seemed that Charles had no intention, either now or at any future 
day, of joining the Church of Rome; that he felt he could not take 
such a step at present without distinct sin; that it would simply be 
^a^ainst his conscience to do so; that he had no feeling whatever that 
God called lihn to do so; that he felt that nothing could justify so- 
serious an act but the conviction that he could not be saved in the 
Church to which he belonged; that he had no such feeling; that he 
had no defmite case against his own Church sufficient for leaving it, 
nor any definite view that the Church of Rome was the One Church 
of Christ: — that still he could not help suspecting that one day he 
should think otherwise; he conceived the day might come, nay would 
come, when he should have that conviction which at present he had 
not, and v/hich of course would be a call on him to act upon it, by 



leaving the Church of England for that of Rome; he could not tell 
distinctly why he so anticipated, except that there were so many 
things which he thought right in the Church of Rome, and so many 
which he thought wrong in the Church of England; and because, 
too, the more he had an opportunity of hearing and seeing, the greater 
cause he had to admire and revere the Roman Catholic system, and 
to be dissatisfied with his own. Carlton, after carefully considering 
the case, advised him to go in for his examination. He acted thus, on 
the one hand, as vividly feeling the changes which take place in the 
minds of young men, and the difficulty of Reding foretelling his 
own state of opinions two years to come; and on the other, from the 
reasonable anticipation that a contrary advice would have been the 
very way to ripen his present doubts on the untenableness of 
Anghcanism into conviction. 

Accordingly, his examination came off in due time; the schools 
were full, he did well, and his class was considered to be secure. 
Sheffield followed soon after, and did brilhantly. The list came out; 
Sheffield was in the first class, Charles in the second. There is always 
of necessity a good deal of accident in these matters; but in the 
present case reasons enough could be given to account for the unequal 
success of the two friends. Charles had lost some time by his father's 
death, and family matters consequent upon it; and his virtual rustica- 
tion for the last six months had been a considerable disadvantage to 
him. Moreover, though he had been a careful persevering reader, 
he certainly had not run the race for honours with the same devotion 
as Sheffield; nor had his religious difficulties, particularly his late 
indecision about presenting himself at all, been without their serious 
influence upon his attention and his energy. As success had not been 
the first desire of his soul, so failure was noTliis greatest misery. He 
wouTd have much preferred success; but in a day or two he found he 
could well endure the want of it. 

Now came the question about his degree, which could not be 
taken without subscription to the Articles, Another consultation 
followed witli Carlton. There was no need of his becoming a B.A. 
at the moment; nothing would be gained by it; better that he should 
postpone the step. He had but to go down, and sa)' nothing about it; 
no one would be the wiser; and if, at the end of six months, as 
Carlton sanguinely anticipated, he found himself in a more comfort- 
able state of mind, then let him come up, and set all right. 



What was he to do with himself at the moment? There was httle 
difficulty here either, what to propose. He had better be reading 
with some clergyman in the country; thus he would at once be 
preparing for orders, and clearing his mind on the points which at 
present troubled him; besides, he might thus have some opportunity 
for parochial duty, which would have a tranquilhsing and sobering 
effect on his mind. As to the books to wliich he should give his 
attention, of course the choice would rest with the clergyman who 
was to guide him; but for himself, he would not recommend the 
usual works in controversy with Rome, for which the Anghcan 
Church was famous; rather those which are of a positive character, 
which treated subjects philosopliically, historically, or doctrinally, 
and displayed the peculiar principles of that Church; Hooker's great 
work, for instance; or Bull's Defensio and Harmonia, or Pearson's 
Vindicice, or Jackson on the Creed, a noble work; to which Laud on 
Tradition might be added, though its form was controversial. Such, 
too, were Bingham's Antiquities, Waterland on the Use of Antiquity, 
Wall on Infant Baptism, and Palmer on the Liturgy. Nor ought he 
to neglect practical and devotional authors, as Bishops Taylor, 
Wilson, and Home. The most important point remained; whither 
was he to betake himself? did he know of any clergyman in the 
country, who would be willing to receive him as a friend and a 
pupil? Charles thought of Campbell, with whom he was on the best 
of terms; and Carlton knew enough of him by reputation, to be 
perfectly sure that he could not be in safer hands. 

Charles, in consequence, made the proposal to him, and it was 
accepted. Notliing then remained for him, but to pay a few bills, 
to pack up some books which he had left in a friend's room, and then 
to bid adieu, at least for a time, to the cloisters and groves of the 
University. He quitted in June, when every thing was in that youth- 
ful and fragrant beauty which he had admired so much in the 
begiiming of liis residence three years before. 


Part III 

But now we must look forward, not back. Once before we took 
leave to pass over nearly two years in the life of the subject of this 
narrative, and now a second and a dreary space of more than the same 
length shall be consigned to oblivion, and the reader shall be set 
down in the autumn of the year next but one after that in which 
Charles took his class and did not take his degree. 

At this time our interest is confined to Boughton and the Rectory 
at Sutton. As to Melford, friend Bateman had accepted the incum- 
bency of a church in a manufacturing town with a district of 10,000 
souls, where he was full of plans for the introduction of the surplice 
and gilt candlesticks among his people. Willis also was gone, on a 
different errand: he had bid adieu to his mother and brother soon 
after Charles had taken his class, and now was Father Aloysius de 
Sancta Cruce in the Passionist Convent of Pennington. 

One evening at the end of September, in the year aforesaid, 
Campbell had called at Boughton, and was walking in the garden 
with Miss Reding. "Really, Mary," he said to her, "I don't think it 
does any good to keep him. The best years of his life arc going, and, 
hiunanly speaking, there is not any chance of his changing his mind, 
at least till he has made a trial of the Church of Rome. It is quite 
possible that that experience may drive him back." "It is a dreadful 
dilemma," she answered; "how can we even indirectly give him 
permission to take so fatal a step?" "He is a dear good fellow," he 
made reply; "he is a sterling fellow; all this longtime that he has been 
with me he has made no difficulties; he has read thoroughly the books 
I recommended and more, and done whatever I told him. You 
know I have employed him in the parish; he has taught the catecliism 
to the children, and been almoner. Poor fellow, his health is suffering 
now; he sees there's no end of it, and hope deferred makes the heart 



sick." "It is so dreadful to give any countenance to what is so very 
wrong," said Mary. "Why, what is to be done?" answered Camp- 
bell; "and we need not countenance it; he can't be kept in leading- 
strings for ever, and there has been a kind of bargain. He wanted 
to make a move at the end of the first year; — I didn't think it worth 
while to fidget you about it; — but I quieted him. We compounded 
in tliis way: he removed liis name from the college-boards, — there 
was not the shghtest chance of liis ever signing the Articles, — and he 
consented to wait another year. Now the time's up, and more, and 
he is getting impatient. So it's not we who shall be giving him 
countenance, it will only be his leaving us." "But it is so fearful," 
insisted Mary; "and my poor mother, — I declare I think it will be 
her death." "It will be a crusliing blow, there's no doubt of that," 
said Campbell; "what does she know of it at present?" "I hardly 
can tell you," answered she; "she has been informed of it indeed 
distinctly a year ago; but seeing Charles so often, and he in appearance 
just the same, I fear she does not reahse it. She has never spoken to 
me on the subject. I fancy she thinks it a scruple; troublesome, cer- 
tainly, but of course temporary," "I must break it to her, Mary," 
said Campbell. "Well, I think it must be done," she repKed, heaving 
a sudden sigh; "and if so, it will be a real kindness in you to save me 
a task to which I am quite unequal. But have a talk with Charles 
first. When it comes to the point, he may have a greater difficulty 
than he thinks beforehand." And so it was settled; and, full of care 
at the double commission with which he was charged, Campbell 
rode back to Sutton. 

Poor Charles was sitting at an open window, looking out upon the 
prospect, when Campbell entered the room. It was a beautiful 
landscape, with bold liills in the distance, and a rushing river beneath 
hmi. Campbell came up to liim without his perceiving it; and, 
putting his hand on his shoulder, asked his thoughts. Charles turned 
round, and smiled sadly. "I am hke Moses seeing the land," he said; 
"my dear Campbell, when shall the end be?" "That, my good 
Charles, of course does not rest with me," answered Campbell. 
"Well," said he, "the year is long run out; may I go my way?" 
"You can't expect that I, or any of us, should even indirectly counten- 
ance you in what, with all our love of you, we think a sin," said 
Campbell. "That is as much as to say,' Act for yourself,' " answered 
Charles; "well, I am willing." Campbell did not at once reply; 



then lie said, "1 shall have to break it to your poor motlicr; Mary- 
thinks it will be her death." Charles dropped his head on die 
window-sill upon his hands. "No," he said; '"I trust that she, and all 
of us, will be supported." "So do I fervently," answered Campbell; 
"it will be a most terrible blow to your sisters. My dear fellov/, 
should you not take all this into account? Do seriously consider the 
actual misery you are causing for possible good." "Do you think I 
have not considered it, Campbell? Is it notliing for one like me to be 
breaking all these dear ties, and to be losing the esteem and sympathy 
of so many persons I love? Oh, it has been a most piercing thought; 
but I have exhausted it, I have drank it out. I have got familiar witli 
the prospect now, and am fully recoiiciled. Yes, I give up home, 
I give up all who have ever known me, loved me, valued me, 
wished me well; I know well I am making myself a bye-word and 
an outcast." "Oh, my dear Charles," answered Campbell, "beware 
of a very subtle temptation which may come on you here. I have 
meant to warn you of it before. The greatness of the sacrifice stimu- 
lates you; you do it because it is so much to do." Charles smiled. 
"How little you know me!" he said; "if that were the case, should I 
have waited patiently two years and more? Why did I not rush for- 
ward as others have done? You will not deny that I have acted 
rationally, obediently. I have put the subject from me again and 
again, and it has returned." "I'll say nothing harsh or unkind of you, 
Charles," said Campbell; "but it's a most unfortmiate delusion. I 
wish I could make you take in the idea that there is the chance of its 
being a delusion." "Ah, Campbell, how can you forget so?" answered 
Charles; "don't you know this is the very thing which has influenced 
me so much all along? I said, 'Perhaps I am in a dream. Oh, that 
I could pinch myself and awake!' You know what stress I laid on 
my change of feehng upon my dear father's death; what I thought 
to be convictions before, vanished then like a cloud. I have said to 
myself, 'Perhaps these will vanish too.' But no; 'the clouds return 
after the rain;' they come again and again heavier than ever. It is a 
conviction rooted in me; it endures against the prospect of the loss 
of mother and sisters. Here I sit wasting my days, when I might be 
useful in hfe. Why? Because tliis hinders me. Lately it has increased 
on me tenfold. You will be shocked, but let me tell you m con- 
fidence, — lately I have been quite afraid to ride, or to bathe, or to do 
any thing out of the way, lest something should happen, and I might 



be taken away with a great duty unaccomplished. No, by this time 
I have proved that it is a real conviction. My behef in the Church of 
Rome is part of myself; I cannot act against it without acting against 
God." "It is a most deplorable state of things certainly," said Camp- 
bell, who had begun to walk up and down the room; "that it is a 
delusion I am confident; perhaps you are to fmd it so just when you 
have taken the step. You will solemnly bind yourself to a foreign 
creed, and, as the words part from your mouth, the mist will roll 
up from before your eyes, and the truth will shew itself How 
dreadful!" "I have thought of that too," said Charles, "and it has 
influenced me a great deal. It has made me shrink back. But I now 
believe it to be like those hideous forms which in fairy tales beset good 
knights, when they would force their way into some enchanted 
palace. Recollect the words in Thalaba — 'The talisman is faith.' 
If I have good grounds for believing, to believe is a duty; God will 
take care of His own work. I shall not be deserted in my utmost 
need. Faith ever begins with a venture, and is rewarded with cer- 
tainty." "Yes, my good Charles," answered Campbell; "but the 
question is whether your grounds are good. What I mean is, that, 
since they are not good, they will not avail you in the trial. You will 
then too late fmd that they are not good, but delusive." "Campbell," 
answered Charles, "I consider that all reason comes from God; our 
grounds must at best be imperfect; but if they appear to be sufficient 
after prayer, diligent search, obedience, waiting, and, in short, doing 
our part, they are His voice calling us on. It is in that case He that 
makes them seem convincing to us. I am in His hands. The only 
question is, what would He have me to do? I carmot resist the 
conviction which is upon me. This last week it has possessed me in 
a different way than ever before. It is now so strong that to wait 
longer is to resist God. Whether I join the Catholic Church is now 
simply a question of days. I wish, dear Campbell, to leave you in 
peace and love. Therefore, consent; let me go." "Let you go!" 
answered Campbell; "certainly, were it the Cathohc Church to 
which you are going, there would be no need to ask; but 'let you go,' 
how can you expect it from us when we do not think so? Think 
of our case, Charles, as well as your own; throw yourself into our 
state of feeling. For myself I cannot deny, I never have concealed 
from you, my convictions that the Romish Church is antichristian. 
She has ten thousand gifts, she is in many respects superior to our 


' l65S and CAIN 

own; but she has a something in her which spoils all. I have no 
confidence in her; and that being the case, how can I 'let you go' to her? 
No; it's like a person saying, 'Let me go and hang myself;' 'let me go 
sleep in a fever-ward;' 'let me jump into that well;' how can I 'let you 
go?' " "Ah," said Charles," that's our dreadful difference; we can't 
get further than that. / think the Church of Rome tlie Prophet of 
God; you, the tool of the devil." "I own," said Campbell, "1 do think 
~fhat, if you take this step, you will fmd yourself in the hands of a 
Circe, who will change you, make a brute of you." Charles slightly 
coloured. "I won't go on," added Campbell; "I pain you; it's no 
good; perhaps I am making matters worse." Neither spoke for some 
time. At length Charles got up, came up to Campbell, took his hand, 
and kissed it. "You have been a kind disinterested friend to me for 
two years," he said; "you have given me a lodging under your roof; 
and now we are soon to be united by closer ties. God rev/ard you; 
but 'let me go, for the day breaketh.' " "It is hopeless," cried 
Campbell; "let us part friends: I must break it to your mother." 

Ill_ten-days after -this conversation Charles was ready for his 
journey; his room put to rights; his portmanteau strapped; and the 
gig at the door, which was to take him the first stage. He was to 
^go round by Boughton; it had been arranged by Campbell and 
Mary, that it would be best for him not to see his mother (to whom 
Campbell had broken the matter at once) till he took leave of her. 
It would be needless pain to both of them to attempt an interview 

Charles leapt from the gig with a beating heart, and ran up to his 
mother's room. She was sitting by the fire at her work when he 
entered; she held out her hand coldly to him, and he sat down. 
Nothing was said for a little while; then, without leaving off her 
occupation, she said, "Well, Charles, and so you are leaving us. 
Where and how do you propose to employ yourself when you have 
entered upon your new hfe?" Charles answered that he had not yet 
turned his mind to the consideration of any thing but the great step 
on which every tiling else depended. There was another silence; then 
she said, "You won't fmd any where such friends as you have had 
at home, Charles." Presently she continued, "You have had every 
thing in your favour, Charles; you have been blessed with talents, 
advantages of education, easy circumstances; many a deserving young 
man has to scramble on as he can." Charles answered, that he was 



deeply sensible how much he owed in temporal matters to Pro- 
vidence, and that it was only at His bidding that he was giving them 
up. "We all looked up to you, Charles; perhaps we made too much 
of you; well, God be with you; you have taken your line." Poor 
Charles said that no one could conceive what it cost liim to give up 
what was so very dear to him, vvhat was part of himself; there was. 
jrio tiling on earth wliich he prized like his home, "Then why do you 
leave us?" she said, quickly; "you must have your way; you do it, 
I suppose, because you like it." "Oh really, my dear mother," cried 
he, "if you saw my heart! You know in Scripture how people were 
obhged, in the Apostles' times, to give up all for Christ." "We are 
heathens, then," she rephed; "thank you, Charles, I am obliged to 
you for this;" and she dashed away a tear from her eye. Charles was 
almost beside himself; he did not know what to say; he stood up and 
leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece, supporting his head on his 
hand. "Well, Charles," she continued, still going on with her work, 
"perhaps the day will come" . . . her voice faltered; "your dear 
father" . . . she put down her work. "It is useless misery," said 
Charles; "why should I stay? good-bye for the present, my dearest 
mother. I leave you in good hands, not kinder, but better than mine; 
you lose me, you gain another. Farewell for the present; we will 
meet when you will, when you call; it will be a happy meeting." 
He threw himself on his knees, and laid liis cheek on her lap; she 
could no longer resist him; she hung over him, and began to smooth 
down his hair as she had done when he was a child. At length scalding 
tears began to fall heavily upon his face and neck; he bore them for 
a wliile, then started up, kissed her cheek impetuously, and rushed out 
of the room. In a few seconds he had seen and had torn himself 
from his sisters, and was in his gig again by the side of his phlegmatic 
driver, dancing slov/ly up and down on his way to Collumpton. 


The reader may ask whither Charles is going, and, though it would 
not be quite true to answer that he did not know better than the said 
reader himself, yet he had most certainly very indistinct notions what 
was becoming of him even locally, and, hke the Patriarch, "went out, 



not knowing whither he went." He had never seen a Cathohc Priest 
to know him in his hfc; never, except once as a boy, been inside a 
Cathohc church; he only knew one Cathohc in the world, and where 
he was he did not know. But he knew that the Passionists had a 
Convent in London; and it was not unnatural that, without knowing 
whether young Father Aloysius was there or not, he should direct 
his course to San Michaele. 

Yet, in kindness to Mary and all of them, he did not profess to 
be leaving direct for London; but he proposed to betake himself to 
Carlton, who still resided in Oxford, and to ask his advice what was 
to be done under his circumstances. It seemed too to be interposing 
what they would consider a last chance of averting what to them was 
so dismal a calamity. 

To Oxford, then, he directed his course; and having some 
accidental business at Bath, he stopped there for the night, intending 
to continue his journey next morning. Among other jobs, he had to 
get a 'Garden of the Soul,' and two or three similar books which 
might help him in the great preparation which awaited his arrival in 
London. He went into a religious pubhsher's in Danvers Street with 
that objecF, anJ, while engaged in a back part of the shop in looking 
over a pile of Cathohc works, which, to the religious public, had 
inferior attractions to the glittering volumes, evangelical and Anglo- 
Catholic, which had possession of the windows and principal table, 
he heard the shop-door open, and, on looking round, saw a familiar 
face. It was that of a young clergyman, with a very pretty girl on 
his arm, whom her dress pronounced to be a bride. Love was in 
their eyes, joy in their voice, and affluence in their gait and bearing. 
Charles had a faintish feeling come over him; somewhat such as might 
beset a man on hearing a call for pork-chops when he was sea-sick. 
He retreated behind a pile of ledgers and other stationery, but they 
could not save him from the low, thrilling tones which from time to 
time passed from one to the other. 

^^Have you got some of the last Oxford reprints of standard works?" 
said the bridegroom to the shopman. "Yes, sir; but which set did 
you mean?' 'Selections from old divines,' or 'New Cathohc adaptaT 
tions?' " "Oh, not the Adaptations," answered he, "they are extremely 
dangerous; I mean real Church-of-England divinit)^ — Bull, Patrick, 
flooker, and the rest of them." The shopman went to look them out. 
"I think it was those Adaptations, dearest," said the lady, "diat tlic 

N— u 305 


Bishop warned us against." "Not the Bishop, Louisa; it was his 
daughter." "Qh^JVliss Primrose, so it was," she said; "and there was 
one book she recommended, what was it?" "Not a book, love; it was 
a speech," said White; "Mr. O'Ballaway's at Exeter Hall; but I think 
we should not quite like it." "No, no, Henry, it was a book, dear; 
I can't recall the name." "You mean Dr. Crow's 'New Refutation 
of Popery,' perhaps; but the Bishop recommended that." 

The shopman returned. "Oh, what a sweet face!" she said, looking 
at the frontispiece of a little book she got hold of; "do look, Henry 
(Jear; whom does it put you in mind of?" "Why, it's meant for St, 
John the Baptist," said Henry. "It's so like little Angelina Primrose," 
said she, "the hair is just hers. I wonder it doesn't strike you." 
"It does — it does, dearest," said he, smiling at her; "but it's getting 
late; you must not be out much longer in the sharp air, and you have 
nothing for your throat. I have chosen my books, while you have 
been gazing on that little St. John." "I can't think who it is so like," 
continued she; "oh, I know; it's Angelina's aunt, Lady Constance." 
"Come, Louisa, the horses too will suffer; we must return to our 
friends." "Oh, there's one book, I can't recollect it; tell me what it is, 
Henry? I shall be so sorry not to have got it." "Was it the new work 
on Gregorian Chants?" asked he. "Ah, it's true, I want it for the 
school-children, but it's not that." "Is it 'the Catholic Parsonage?' " 
he asked again; "or, 'Lays of the Apostles?' or, 'The English Church 
older than the Roman?' or, 'Anglicanism of the Early Martyrs?' or, 
'Confessions of a Pervert?' or, 'Eustace Beville?' or, 'Modified 
Celibacy?' " "No, no, no," said Louisa; "dear me, it is so stupid." 
"Well, now really, Louisa," he insisted, "you must come another 
time; it won't do, dearest, it won't do." "Oh I recollect," she said, 
"I recollect — 'Abbeys and Abbots;' I want to get some liints for 
improving the rectory- windows, when we get home; and our church 
wants, you know, a porch for the poor people. The book is full of 
designs." The book was found, and added to the rest, which had 
been already taken to the carriage. "Now, Louisa," said White. 
"Well, dearest, there's one more place we must call at," she made 
answer; "tell John to drive to Sharp's; we can go round by the 
Nursery — it's only a few steps out of the way — I want to say a word 
to the man there about our greenhouse; there is no good gardener 
in our own neighbourhood." "What is the good, Louisa, now?" 
said her husband; "we shan't be at home tliis month to come;" 



and then, with due resignation, he directed the coachman to tlic 
nurseryman's whom Louisa named, as he put her into the carriage, 
and then followed her. 

Charles breathed freely as they went out; a severe text of Scripture 
rose on his mind, but he repressed the censorious or uncliaritable 
feeling, and turned himself to the anxious duties which lay before 


Nothing happened to Charles worth relating before his arrival at 
Steventon next day; when, the afternoon being fme, he left his 
portmanteau to follow him by the omnibus, and put himself upon 
the road. If it required some courage to undertake by himself a long 
journey on an all-momentous errand, it did not lessen the difficulty 
that that journey took in its way a place and person so dear to him as 
Oxford and Carlton. 

He had passed through Bagley Wood, and the spires and towers 
of the University came on his view, hallowed by how many tender 
associations, lost to him for two whole years, suddenly recovered — 
recovered to be lost for ever! There lay old Oxford before him, with 
its hills as gentle and its meadows as green as ever. At the first view 
of that beloved place, he stood still with folded arms, unable to 
proceed. Each college, each church, he counted them by their 
pinnacles and turrets. The silver Isis, the grey willows, the far- 
stretching plains, the dark groves, the distant range of Shotover, the 
pleasant village where he had lived with Carlton and Sheffield — 
wood, water, stone, all so calm, so bright, they might have been his, 
but his they were not. Whatever he was to gain b}' becoming a 
Catholic, this he had lost; whatever he was to gain higher and better, 
atleTst this and such as this he never could have again. He could not 
^ave another Oxford, he could not have the friends of his boyhood 
and youth in the choice of his manhood. Hc^mountcd the wcll- 
kno'wn gate on the left, and proceeded down into the plain. There 
was no one to greet him, to sympathise with him; there was no one 
to believe he needed sympathy; no one to believe he liad given up 
any thing, no one to take interest in him, to feci tender towards him, 
to defend him. He had suffered much, but there was no one to 



believe that he had suffered. He would be thought to be inflicting 
merely, not undergoing, suffering. He might say that he had suffered; 
but he would be rudely told, that every one follows his own will, 
and that if he had given up Oxford, it was for a wliim which he 
liked better than it. But rather, there was no one to know liim; he 
had been virtually three years away; three years is a generation; 
Oxford had been liis place once, but his place knew him no more. He 
recollected with what awe and transport he had at first come to the 
University as to some sacred shrine; and how from time to time 
hopes had come over liim that some day or other he should have 
gained a title to residence on one of its ancient foundations. One 
night, in particular, came across his memory, how a friend and he had 
ascended to the top of one of its many towers with the purpose of 
making observations on the stars; and how while liis friend was 
busily engaged with the pointers, he, earthly-minded youth, had 
been looking down into the deep, gas-lit, dark-shadowed quadrangles 
and wondering if he should ever be Fellow of this or that College, 
which he singled out from the mass of academical buildings. All had 
passed as a dream, and he was a stranger where he had hoped to have 
had a home. 

He was drawing near Oxford; he saw along the road before him 
brisk youths pass, two and two, with elastic tread, finishing their 
modest daily walk, and nearing the city. What had been a tandem 
a mile back, next crossed his field of view, shorn of its leader. Pres- 
ently a stately cap and gown loomed in the distance; he had gained 
the road before it crossed him; it was a college-tutor whom he had 
known a httlc. Charles expected to be recognised; but the resident 
passed by with that half-conscious, uncertain gaze which seemed to 
have some memory of a face which yet was strange. He had passed 
Folly Bridge; troops of horsemen overtook him, talking loud, while 
with easy jaunty pace they turned into their respective stables. He 
crossed to Christ Church, and penetrated to Peckwater. The evening 
was still bright, and the gas was lighting. Groups of young men 
were stationed here and there, the greater number in hats, a few in 
caps, one or two with gowns in addition. Some were hallooing up 
to their companions at the windows of the second story; scouts were 
carrying about cugcr dinners; pastry-cook boys were bringing 
in desserts; shabby fellows with Blenheim puppies were loitering 
under Canterbury Gate. Many stared, but no one knew liim. He 




vt/<rYv , ,^ 


hurried up Oriel Lane; suddenly a start and a low bow from a 
passer-by; who could it be? it was a superannuated shoeblack of his 
college, to whom he had sometimes given a stray slnlJing. He 
gained the High Street, and turned down towards the Angel. What 
was approaching? the vision of a proctor. Charles felt an instinctive 
quivering; but it passed by him, and did no harm. Like Kehania, he 
had a charmed hfe. And now he had reached his inn, where he found 
his portmanteau all ready for him. He chose a bed-room, and, after 
fully inducting himself into it, turned his thoughts towards dinner. 

He wished to lose no time, but, if possible, to proceed to London 
the following morning. It would be a great point if he could get to 
his journey's end so early in the week, that by Sunday, if he was 
thought worthy, he might offer up his praises for the mercies voucli- 
safed to him, in the great and holy communion of the Universal 
Church. Accordingly he determined to make an attempt on Carlton 
that evening; and hoped, if he went to liis room between seven and 
eight, to fmd him returned from Common Room. With tliis 
intention he sallied out at about the half-hour, gained Carlton's 
college, knocked at the gate, entered, passed on, up the worn wooden 
steep staircase. The oak was closed; he descended, found a servant; 
"Mr. Carlton was giving a dinner in Common Room; it would soon 
be over." Charles determined to wait for him. 

The servant lighted candles in the inner room; and Charles sat 
down at the fire. For a while he sat in reflection; then he looked 
about for sometliing to occupy him. His eye caught an Oxford 
paper; it was but a few days old. "Let us see how the old place goes 
on," he said to himself, as he took it up. He glanced from one article 
to another, looking who were the University-preachers of the week, 
who had taken degrees, who were public examiners, ^x. &c., when 
liis eye was arrested by the following paragraph: 

"Defection from the Church.— We understand that another 
victim has lately been added to tlie list of those whom the venom of 
Tractarian principles has precipitated into the bosom of the Sorceress 
of Rome. Mr. Reding of St. Saviour's, the son of a respectable 
clergyman of the Estabhshment, deceased, after eating the bread of 
the Church all his life, has at length avowed himself the subject and 
slave of an Italian Bishop. Disappointment in the schools is said to 
have been the determining cause of this inflituatcd act. It is reported 
that legal measures are in progress for directing the penalties oi the 



Statute of Praemunire against all the seceders; and a proposition is 
on foot for petitioning her Majesty to assign the sum thereby realized 
by the Government, to the erection of a 'Martyrs' Memorial' in the 
sister University." 

"So," thought Charles, "the world, as usual, is beforehand with 
me," and he sat speculating about the origin of the report, till he 
almost forgot that he was waiting for Carlton. 


While Charles was learning in Carlton's rooms the interest which the 
world took in his position and acts, he was actually furnishing a topic 
of conversation to that portion of it which was assembled in social 
meeting in the neighbouring Common Room. Tea and coffee had 
made their appearance, the guests had risen from table, and were 
crowding round the fire. "Who is this Mr. Reding, spoken of in the 
'Gazette' of last week?" said a prim Httle man, sipping his tea with his 
spoon, and rising on his toes as he spoke. "You need not go far for 
an answer," said his neighbour, and, turning to their host, added, 
"Carlton, who is Mr. Reding?" "A very dear honest fellow," 
answered Carlton; "I wish we were all of us as good. He read with 
me one Long Vacation, is a good scholar, and ought to have gained 
his class. I have not heard of him for some time." "He has other 
friends in the room," said another: "I think," turning to a young 
Fellow of Leicester, "yow, Sheffield, were at one time intimate with 
Reding." "Yes," answered Sheffield; "and Vincent of course knows 
him too; he's a capital fellow; I know him exceedingly well; what the 
'Gazette' says about him is shameful. I never met a man who cared 
less about success in the schools; it was quite his fault." "That's 
about the truth," said another; "I met Mr. Malcohn yesterday at 
dinner, and it seems he knows the family. He said that his religious 
notions carried Reding away, and spoiled his reading." 

The conversation was not general; it went on in detached groups, 
as the guests stood together. Nor was the subject a popular one; 
rather it was either a painful or a disgusting subject to the whole 
party, two or three curious and hard minds excepted, to whom 
opposition to Catholicism was meat and drink. Besides, in such 



chance collections of men, no one knew exactly his neighbour's 
opinion about it; and, as in this instance, there were often friends of 
the accused or calumniated present. And moreover, there was a 
generous feeling, and a consciousness how much secedcrs from the 
Anghcan Church were giving up, which kept down any disrespectful 
mention of them. 

"Are you to do much in the schools this term?" said one to 
another. "I don't know; we have two men going up, good scholars." 
"Who has come into Stretton's place?" "Jackson of King's." 
"Jackson? indeed; he's strong in science, I think." "Very." "Our 
men know their books well, but I should not say that science is their 
line." "Leicester sends four." "It will be a large class-list, from what 
I hear." "The Michaelmas paper is always a good one." 

Meanwhile the conversation was in another quarter dwelling upon 
poor Charles. "No, depend upon it, there's more in what the 
'Gazette' says than you think. Disappointment is generally at the 
bottom of these changes." "Poor devils! they can't help it," said 
another, in a low voice, to his neighbour. "A good riddance, any- 
how," said the party addressed; "we shall have a little peace at last." 
"Well," said the first of the two, drawing himself up and speaking 
in the air, "hov/ any educated man should" — his voice was over- 
powered by the grave enunciation of a small man behind them, who 
had hitherto kept silence, and now spoke with positiveness. He 
addressed himself, between the two heads which had been just talking 
in private, to the group beyond them. "It's all the effect of ration- 
alism," he said; "the whole movement is rationalistic. At the end of 
three years, all those persons who have now apostatised will be 
infidels." No one responded; at length another of the party came 
up to Mr. Malcolm's acquaintance, and said slowly, "I suppose you 
never heard it hinted that there is something wrong here in Mr. 
Reding," toucliing his forehead significantly; "I have been told it's 
in the family." He was answered by a deep, powerful voice, belong- 
ing to a person who sat in a corner; it sounded like "the great bell of 
Bow," as if it ought to have closed the conversation. It said abruptly, 
"I respect him uncommonly; I have an extreme respect for him. He's 
an honest man; I wish others were as honest. If they were, then, as 
the Puseyitcs are becoming Catholics, so we should sec old Brownside 
and his clique becoming Unitarians, But they mean to stick in." 

Most persons present felt the truth of his remark, and a silence 



followed it for a while. It was broken by a clear cackling voice. 
"Did you ever hear," said he, nodding his head, or rather his whole 
person, as he spoke, "did you ever, Sheffield, happen to hear, that tliis 
gentleman, your friend Mr. Reding, when he was quite a freshnian, 
had a conversation with some attache of the Popish Chapel in this 
place, at the very door of it, after the men were gone down?" 
"Impossible, Fusby," said Carlton, and laughed. "It's quite true," 
returned Fusby; "I had it from the Under-Marshal, who was passing 
at the moment. My eye has been on Mr. Reding for some years." 
"So it seems," said Sheffield, "for that must have been at least, let me 
see, five or six years ago." "Oh," continued Fusby, "there are two 
or three more yet to come; you will see." "Why, Fusby," said 
Vincent, overhearing, and coming up, "you are hke the three old 
crones in the Bride of Lammermoor, who wished to have the straik- 
ing of the Master of Ravenswood." Fusby nodded his person, but 
made no answer. "Not all three at once, I hope," said Sheffield. 
"Oh, it's quite a concentration, a quintessence of Protestant feehng," 
answered Vincent; "I consider myself a good Protestant; but the 
pleasure you have in hunting these men is quite sensual, Fusby." 
The Common Room man here entered, and whispered to Carlton 
that a stranger was waiting for him in his rooms. 

"When do your men come up?" said Sheffield to Vincent. "Next 
Saturday," answered Vincent. "They always come up late," said 
Sheffield. "Yes, the Flouse met last week." "St. Michael's has met 
too," said Sheffield; "so have we." "We have a reason for meeting 
late, many of our men come from the north and from Ireland." 
"That's no reason, with railroads." "I see they have begun ours," 
said Vincent; "I thought the University had opposed it." "The Pope 
has given in," said Sheffield, "so we may well do the same." "Don't 
talk of the Pope," said Vincent, "I'm sick of the Pope." "The Pope?" 
said Fusby, overhearing; "have you heard that his Holiness is coming 
to England?" "Oh, oh," cried Vincent, "come, I can't stand this. 
I must go; good night t'you, Carlton: whcre's my gown?" "I believe 
the Common Room man has hung it up in the passage; but you 
should stop and protect me from Fusby." Neither did Vincent turn 
to the rescue, nor did Fusby profit by the hint; so poor Carlton, with 
the knowledge that he was wanted in his rooms, had to stay a good 
half-hour tete-a-tete with the latter, while he proposed to him in 
extenso about Pope Gregory XVI., the Jesuits, suspected men in the 



University, Mede on the Apostasy, the Catholic Rchcf Bill, Dr. 
Pusey's Tract on Baptism, justification and the appointment of the 
Taylor professors. 

At length, however, Carlton was released. He ran across the 
quadrangle and up liis staircase; flung open his door, and made his 
way into his inner room. A person was just rising to meet him; 
impossible! but it was though. "What? Reding!" he cried; "who 
would have thought! what a pleasure! we were just — . . . . What 
brings you here?" he added in an altered tone. Then gravely, 
"Reding, where are you?" "Not yet a Catholic," said Reding. 
There was a silence; the answer conveyed a good deal: it was a relief, 
but it was an intimation. "Sit down, my dear Reding; will you have 
any thing? have you dined? What a pleasure to see you, old fellow! 
are we really to lose you?" They were soon in conversation on the 
great subject. 


"If you have made up your mind, Reding," said Carlton, "it's no 
good talking. May you be happy whatever you are! You must 
always be yourself; as a Romanist, you will still be Charles Reding." 
"I know I have a kind, sympathising friend in you, Carlton. You 
have always listened to me, never snubbed me except when I deserved 
it. You know more about me than any one else. Campbell is a dear 
good fellow, and will soon be dearer to me still. It isn't generally 
known yet, but he is to marry my sister. He has borne with me now 
for two years; never been hard upon me; always been at my service 
when I wanted to talk with him. But no one makes me open my 
heart as you do, Carlton; you sometimes have differed from mc, but 
you have always understood me." "Thank you for your kind 
words," answered Carlton; "but to me it is a perfect mystery why 
you should leave us. I enter into your reasons; I cannot, for the life of 
me, see how you come to your conclusion." "To me, on the other 
hand, Carlton, it is like two and two makes four; and you make two 
and two five, and are astonished that I won't agree with you." "We 
must leave these things to a Higher Power," said Carlton; "I hope 
we sha'n't be less friends, Reding, when you are in another com- 
munion. We know each other; these outward things camiot change 




US." Reding sighed; he saw clearly that his change of religion, when 
completed, would not fail to have an effect on Carlton's thoughts of 
him, as on those of others. It could not possibly be otherwise: he was 
sure himself to feel differently about Carlton. 

After a while, Carlton said gently, "Is it quite impossible. Reding, 
that now at the eleventh hour we may retain you? what are your 
grounds?" "Don't let us argue, dear Carlton," answered Reding; 
"I have done with argument. Or, if I must say sometliing for 
manners' sake, I will but tell you that I have fulfilled your request. 
You bade me read the Anglican divines; I have given a great deal of 
time to them, and I am embracing that creed which alone is the scope 
to which they converge in their separate teaching; the creed wliich 
upholds the divinity of tradition with Laud, consent of Fathers with 
Beveridge, a visible Church with Bramhall, a tribunal of dogmatic 
decisions with Bull, the authority of the Pope with Thorndike, 
penance with Taylor, prayers for the dead with Ussher, celibacy, 
asceticism, ecclesiastical disciphne with Bingham. I seek a Church, 
which in these, and a multitude of other points, is nearer the apostohc 
Church than any existing one; v/hich is the continuation of the 
apostolic Church, if it has been continued at all. And seeing it to be 
like the apostolic Church, I believe it to be the sauie. .Reason has_gone 
first, faith is to follow." 

He stopped, and Carlton did not reply; a silence ensued, and 
Charles at length broke it. "I repeat, it's no use arguing; I have 
made up my mind, and been very slow about it. I have broken it to 
my mother, and bade her farewell. All is determined; I cannot go 
back." "Is that a nice feeling?" said Carlton, half reproachfully. 
"Understand me," answered Reding; "I have come to my resolution 
with great deliberation. It has remained on my mind as a mere 
intellectual conclusion for a year or two; surely now at length without 
blame I may change it into a practical resolve. But none of us can 
answer that those habitual and ruling convictions, on which it is our 
duty to act, will remain before our consciousness every moment, 
when we come into the hurry of the world, and are assailed by 
inducements and motives of various kinds. Therefore I say that the 
time of argument is past; I act on a conclusion already drawn." "But 
how do you know," asked Carlton, "but what you have been 
unconsciously biassed in arriving at it? one notion has possessed you, 
and you have not been able to shake it off. Tlic ability to retain your 



convictions in the bustle of life is to my mind the very test, the 
necessary test of their reality." "I do, I do retain them," answered 
Reding; "they are always upon me." "Only at times, as you have 
yourself confessed," objected Carlton: "surely you ought to have a 
very strong conviction indeed, to set against the mischief you are 
doing by a step of this kind. Consider how many persons you are 
unsettling; v^hat a triumph you are giving to the enemies of all 
religion; what encouragement to the notion that there is no such 
thing as truth; how you are weakening our Church. Well, all I say 
is, that you should have very strong convictions to set against all 
this." "Well," said Charles, "I grant, I maintain, that the only motive 
which is sufficient to justify a move, is the conviction that one's 
salvation depends on it. Now, I speak sincerely, my dear Carlton, 
in saying, that I don't think I shall be saved, if I remain in the English 
Church." "Do you mean that there is no salvation in our Church?" 
said Carlton, rather coldly. "No, but I am talking of myself; it's not 
my place to judge others. I only say, God calls riic, and I must follow 
at the risk of my soul." "God 'calls' you!" said Carlton, "what does 
that mean? I don't like it; it's dissenting language." "You know it is 
Scripture language," answered Reding. "Yes, but people don't in 
Scripture say, 'I'm called;' the calling was an act from without, the 
act of others, not an inward feeling." "But, my dear Carlton, how 
is a person to get at truth now, when there can be no simple outward 
call?" "That seems to me a pretty good intimation," answered 
Carlton, "that we are to remain where Providence has placed us." 
"Now this is just one of the points on which I can't get at the bottom 
of the Church of England's doctrine. But it's so on so many other 
subjects! it's always so. Are members of the Church of England to 
seek the truth, or have they it given them from the first? do they seek 
it for themselves? or is it ready provided for them?" 

Carlton thought a moment, and seemed doubtful what to answer; 
then he said that we must of course seek it. It was a part of our moral 
probation to seek the truth. "Then don't talk to me about our posi- 
tion," said Charles; "I hardly expected you to make this answer; but 
it is what the majority of Church-of-England people say. They tell us 
to seek, they give us rules for seeking, they make us exert our private 
judgment; but directly we come to any conclusion but theirs, the)' 
turn round and talk to us ot our 'providential position.' But tlierc's 
another thing. Tell me, supposing we ought all to seek the truth, do 



you think that members of the EngHsh Church do seek it in that way 
which Scripture enjoins upon all seekers? Think how very seriously 
Scripture speaks of the arduousness of fmding, the labour of seeking, 
the duty of thirsting after the truth? I don't believe the bulk of 
the English clergy, the bulk of Oxford residents, Heads of houses. 
Fellows of colleges (with all their good points, which I am not the 
man to deny,) have ever sought the truth. They have taken what they 
found, and have used no private judgment at all. Or if they have 
judged, it has been in the vaguest, most cursory way possible; or they 
have looked into Scripture only to fmd proofs for what they were 
bound to subscribe, as undergraduates getting up the Articles. Then 
they sit over their wine, and talk about this or that friend who has 
'seceded,' and condemn him, and" (glancing at the newspaper on the 
table) "assign motives for his conduct. Yet, after all, which is the 
more likely to be right, — he who has given years, perhaps, to the 
search of truth, who has habitually prayed for guidance, and has 
taken all the means in his power to secure it; or they, 'the gentlemen 
of England who sit at home at ease?' No, no, they may talk of seeking 
the truth, of private judgment, as a duty, but they have never sought, 
they have never judged; they are where they are, not because it is 
true, but because they fmd themselves there, because it is their 
'providential position,' and a pleasant one into the bargain." 

Reding had got somewhat excited; the paragraph in the news- 
paper had annoyed liim. But without taking that into account, there 
was enough in the circumstances in which he found lihnself to throw 
him out of his ordinary state of mind. He was in a crisis of peculiar 
trial, wliich a person must have felt to understand. Few men go to 
battle in cool blood, or prepare without agitation for a surgical 
operation. Carlton, on the other hand, was a quiet, gentle person, 
who was not heard to use an excited word once a year. The con- 
versation came to a stand. At length Carlton said, "I hope, dear 
Reding, you are not joining the Church of Rome merely because 
there are unreasonable, unfeeling persons in the Church of England." 
Charles felt that he was not shewing to advantage, and that he was 
giving rise to the very surmises about the motives of his conversion 
wliich he was deprecating. "It is a sad thing," he said with something 
of self-reproach, "to spend our last minutes in wrangling. Forgive 
me, Carlton, if I have said any tiling too strongly or earnestly." 
Carlton thought he had; he thought liim in an excited state; but it was 



no use telling him so; so he merely pressed his offered hand affection- 
ately, and said nothing. 

Presently he said, dryly and abruptly, "Reding, do you know any 
Roman Catholics?" "No," answered Reding; "Willis indeed, but 
I hav'n't seen even him these two years. It has been entirely the 
working of my own mind." Carlton did not answer at once; then he 
said, as dryly and abruptly as before, "I suspect you will have much 
to bear with, then, when you know them." "What do you mean?" 
asked Reding. "You will fmd them under-educated men, I suspect." 
"What do you know of them?" said Reding. "I suspect it," answered 
Carlton. "But what's that to the purpose?" asked Charles. "It's a 
thing you should think of. An English clergyman is a gentleman; 
you may have more to bear than you reckon for, when you fmd 
yourself with men of rude minds and vulgar manners." "My dear 
Carlton, ar'n't you talking of what you know nothing at all about?" 
"Well, but you should think of it, you should contemplate it," said 
Carlton; "I judge from their letters and speeches, which one reads in 
the papers." Charles thought a while; then he sad, "Certainly, I 
don't like many things which are done and said by Roman Catholics 
just now; but I don't see how all this can be more than a trial and a 
cross; I don't see how it affects the great question." "No, except that 
you may fmd yourself a fish out of water," answered Carlton; "you 
may fmd yourself in a position where you can act with no one, where 
you will be quite thrown away." "Well," said Charles, "as to the 
fact, I know notliing about it; it may be as you say, but I don't think 
much of your proof. In all communities the worst is on the outside. 
What offends me in Cathohc public proceedings need be no measure, 
nay I believe cannot be a measure, of the inward Catholic mind. I 
would not judge the Anglican Church by Exeter Hall, nay not by 
Episcopal Charges. We see the interior of our own Church, the 
exterior of the Church of Rome. This is not a fair comparison." 
"But look at their books of devotion," insisted Carlton; "they can't 
write English." Reding smiled at Carlton, and slowly shook his 
head to and fro, while he said, "They write English, I suppose, as 
classically as St. Jolin writes Greek." Here again the conversation 
halted, and nothing was heard for a while but the simmering of the 

There was no good in disputing, as might be seen trom the first; 
each had liis own view, and that A\'as the beginning and end of tlie 



matter. Charles stood up. "Well, dearest Carlton," he said, "we 
must part; it must be going on for eleven." He pulled out of his 
pocket a small 'Christian Year.' "You have often seen me with this," 
he continued; "accept it in memory of me. You will not see me, 
but here is a pledge that I will not forget you, that I will ever remem- 
ber you." He stopped, much affected. "Oh, it is very hard to leave 
you all, to go to strangers," he went on; "I do not wish it, but I 
camiot help it; I am called, I am compelled." He stopped again; the 
tears flowed down his cheeks. "All is well," he said recovering him- 
self, "all is well; but it's hard at the time, and scarcely any one to feel 
for me; black looks, bitter words ... I am pleasing myself, following 
my own will! . . . well . . ." and he began looking at his fmgers, 
and slowly rubbing his palms one on another. "It must be," he 
whispered to himself, "through tribulation to the kingdom, sowing 
in tears, reaping in joy . . ." Another pause, and a new train of 
thought came over him; "Oh," he said, "I fear so very much, so very 
much, that all you who do not come forward will go back. You 
cannot stand where you are; for a time you will think you do, then 
you will oppose us, and still think you keep your ground, while you 
use the same words as before; but your belief, your opinions will 
decline. You will hold less. And then, in time, it will strike you that, 
in differing with Protestants, you are contending only about words. 
They call us RationaHsts; take care you don't fall into Liberalism. 
And now, my dearest Carlton, my one friend in Oxford who was 
patient and loving towards me, good-bye. May we meet not long 
hence in peace and joy. I cannot go to you; you must come to me." 
They embraced each other affectionately; and the next minute Charles 
was rumiing down the staircase. 


Charles went to bed with a bad headache, and woke with a worse. 
Nothing remained but to order his bill, and be off for London. Yet 
he could not go without taking a last farewell of the place itself. He 
was up soon after seven; and while the gownsmen were rising and 
in their respective chapels, he had been round Magdalen Walk and 
Christ Church Meadow. There were few or none to see him, 




wherever he went. The trees of the Water Walk were variegated, 
as beseemed the tmie of year, with a thousand hues, arching over his 
head, and screening his side. He reached Addison's Walk; there 
he had been for the first time with his father, when he was coming 
into residence, just six years before to a day. He pursued it, and 
onwards still, till he came round in sight of the beautiful tower, which 
at length rose close over his head. The morning was frosty, and there 
was a mist; the leaves flitted about; all was in unison with the state of 
his feelings. He re-entered the monastic buildings, meeting with 
nothing but scouts with boxes of cinders, and old women carrying 
off the remains of the kitchen. He crossed to the Meadow, and 
walked steadily down to the junction of the Cherwell with the Isis; 
he then turned back. What thoughts came upon him! for the last 
time! There was no one to see him; he threw liis arms round the 
willows so dear to him, and kissed them; he tore off some of their 
black leaves, and put them in his bosom. "I am like Undine," he 
said, "killing with a kiss. No one cares for me; scarce a person knows 
me." He neared the Long Walk again. Suddenly looking obliquely 
into it, he saw a cap and gown; he looked anxiously; it was Jennings; 
there was no mistake; and his direction was towards him. He always 
had felt kindly towards him, in spite of his stermiess, but he would 
not meet him for the world; what was he to do? he stood behind a 
large elm, and let him pass; then he set off again at a quick pace. 
When he had got some way, he ventured to turn liis head round; 
and he saw Jennings at the moment, by that sort of fatality or sym- 
pathy which is so common, turning round towards him. He hurried 
on, and soon found himself again at liis inn. 

Strange as it may seem, though he had on the whole had as good 
success as Carlton in the "keen encounter of their wits" the night 
before, it had left an unsatisfactory effect on his mind. The time for 
action was come; argument was past, as he had himself said; and to 
recur to argument was only to confuse the clearness of liis apprehen- 
sion of the truth. He began to question whether he really had 
evidence enough for the step he was taking, and the temptation 
assailed him that he was giving up this world without gaining the 
next. Carlton evidently thought him excited; what if it were true? 
Perhaps his convictions were, after all, a dream; what did they rest 
upon? He tried to recall his best arguments, and could not. Was 
there, after all, any such tiling as truth? Was not one tiling as good as 



another? At all events, could he not have served God well in his 
generation where he had been placed? He recollected some lines in 
the Ethics of Aristotle, quoted by the pliilosopher from an old poet, 
where the poor outcast Philoctetes laments over his own stupid 
ofFiciousness, as he calls it, wliich had been the cause of his misfortunes. 
Was he not a busybody too? Why could he not let well alone? 
Better men than he had lived and died in the English Church. And 
then what if, as Campbell had said, all his so-called convictions were 
to vanish just as he entered the Roman pale, as they had done on his 
father's death? He began to envy Sheffield; all had turned out well 
with him — a good class, a fellowship, merely or principally because 
he had taken things as they came, and not gone roaming after 
visions. He felt liimself violently assaulted; but he v/as not deserted, 
not overpowered. His good sense, rather his good Angel, came 
to his aid; evidently he was in no way able to argue or judge 
at that moment; the deliberate conclusions of years ought not 
to be set aside by the troubled thoughts of an hour. With an effort 
he put the whole subject from him, and addressed himself to his 

How he got to Steventon he hardly recollected, but gradually he 
came to himself, and found himself in a first-class of the Great 
Western, proceeding rapidly towards London. He then looked about 
him to ascertain who liis fellow-travellers were. The further com- 
partment was full of passengers, who seemed to form one party, 
talking together with great volubility and glee. Of the three seats in 
his own part of the carriage one only, that opposite to him, was filled. 
On taking a survey of the stranger, he saw a grave person passing or 
past the middle age; his face had that worn or rather unplacid 
appearance, which even shght physical suffering, if habitual, gives to 
the features, and his eyes were pale from study or other cause. Charles 
thought he had seen his face before, but he could not recollect where 
or when. But what most interested him was his dress, which was 
such as is rarely found in a travelling-companion. It was of a foreign 
character, and taken together with the small office-book he held in 
his hand, plainly shewed Charles that he was opposite a Roman 
ecclesiastic. His heart beat, and lie felt tempted to start from his 
seat; then a sick feeling and a sinking came over liim. He gradually 
grew calmer, and journeyed on some time in silence, longing yet 
afraid to speak. At length, on the train stopping at the station, he 



addressed a few words to him in French. His companion looked 
surprised, smiled, and in a hesitating saddish voice said that he was an 
Englishman. Charles made an awkward apology, and there was 
silence again. Their eyes sometimes met, and then moved slowly off 
each other, as if a mutual reconnoitring was in progress. At length 
it seemed to strike the stranger that he had abruptly stopped the 
conversation; and, after apparently beating about for an introductory 
topic, he said, "Perhaps I can read you, sir, better than you can me. 
You are an Oxford man by your appearance." Charles assented. 
"A bachelor?" He was of near Master's standing. His companion, 
who did not seem in a humour for talking, proceeded to various 
questions about the University, as if out of civility. What colleges 
sent proctors that year? Were the Taylor professors appointed? 
Were they members of the Church of England? Did the new Bishop 
of Bury keep his headship? &c. &c. Some matter-of-fact conversa- 
tion followed, which came to nothing. Charles had so much to ask; 
his thoughts were busy, and his mind full. Here was a Cathohc priest 
ready for his necessities; yet the opportunity was likely to pass away, 
and nothing to come of it. After one or two fruitless efforts, he gave 
it up, and leant back in his seat. His fellow-traveller began, as quietly 
as he could, to say office. Time went forward, the steam was let off, 
and put on; the train stopped and proceeded, and the office was 
apparently finished; the book vanished in a side-pocket. 

After a time Charles suddenly said, "How came you to suppose I 
was of Oxford?" "Not entirely by your look and manner, for I saw 
you jump from the omnibus at Steventon; but with that assistance 
it was impossible to mistake." "I have heard others say the same," 
said Charles; "yet I can't myself make out how an Oxford man 
should be known from another." "Not only Oxford men, Cam- 
bridge men are known by their appearance; soldiers, lawyers, bene- 
ficed clergymen; indeed every class has its external indications, to 
those who can read them." "I know persons," said Charles, "who 
believe that handwriting is an indication of calling and character." 
"I do not doubt it," replied the priest; "the gait is another; but it is 
not all of us who can read so recondite a language. Yet a language 
it is, as really as hieroglyphics on a pyramid." "It is a fearful 
thought," said Charles with a sigh, "that we, as it were, exhale 
ourselves every breath we draw." The stranger assented; "A man's 
moral being," he said, "is concentrated in each moment o{ his life; 

N— X 321 


it lives in the tips of liis fingers, and the spring of his insteps. A very 
Httle thing tries what a man is made of." 

"I think I must be speaking to a Cathohc Priest," said Charles: 
vi^hen his question was answered in the affirmative, he went on 
hesitatingly to ask if what they had been speaking of did not illustrate 
tlie importance of faith? "One did not see at first sight," he said, "how 
it was rational to maintain that so much depended on holding this or 
that doctrine, or a little more or a little less, but it might be a test of 
the heart." His companion looked pleased; however, he observed, 
that "there was no 'more or less' in faith; that either we believed the 
whole revealed message, or really we believed no part of it; that we 
ought to believe what the Church proposed to us on the word of the 
Church." "Yet surely the so-called Evangelical believes more than 
the Unitarian, and the High-Churchman than the Evangehcal," 
objected Charles. "The question" said his fellow-traveller, "is, 
whether they submit their reason implicitly to that which they 
have received as God's word." Charles assented. "Would you say, 
then," he continued, "that the Unitarian really believes that which he 
professes to receive as God's word, when he passes over and gets rid 
of so much that is in that word?" "Certainly not," said Charles. 
"And why?" "Because it is plain," said Charles, "that liis ultimate 
standard of truth is not the Scripture, but, unconsciously to himself, 
some view of things in his mind which is the measure of Scripture." 
"Then he believes himself, if we may so speak," said the priest, "and 
not the external word of God." "Certainly." "Well, in Hke manner," 
he continued, "do you think a person can have real faith in that 
which he admits to be the word of God, who passes by, without 
attempting to understand, such passages as, 'the Church the pillar 
and ground of the truth;' or, 'whosesoever sins ye remit, they are 
remitted;' or, 'if any man is sick, let him call for the elders of the 
Church, and let them anoint him with oil?' " "Yes," said Charles; 
"but, in fact, we do not profess to have faith in the mere text of 
Scripture. You know, sir," he added hesitatingly, "that the Anglican 
doctrine is to interpret Scripture by the Church; therefore we have 
faith, like Catholics, not in Scripture simply, but in the whole word 
committed to the Church, of which Scripture is a part." His com- 
panion smiled; "How many," he asked, "so profess? But, waving 
this question, I understand what a Catholic means by going by the 
voice of the Church; it means, practically, by the voice of the first 



priest he meets. Every priest is the voice of the Church. This is quite 
intelhgible. In matters of doctrine, he has faith in the word of any 
priest. But what, where, is that 'word' of the Cliurch which the 
persons you speak of behevc in? and when do they exercise their 
behef? Is it not an undeniable fact, that so far from all Anglican 
clergymen agreeing together in faith, — what the first says, the second 
will unsay? so that an Anglican cannot, if he would, have faith in 
them, and necessarily does, though he would not, choose between 
them. How, then, has faith a place in the religion of an Anglican?" 
"Well," said Charles, "I am sure I know a good many persons, — 
and if you knew the Church of England as I do, you would not 
need me to tell you, — who, from knowledge of the Gospels, have 
an absolute conviction and an intimate sense of the reality of the 
sacred facts contained in them, which, whether you call it faith or 
not, is powerful enough to colour their whole being with its influence, 
and rules their heart and conduct as well as their imagination. I can't 
believe that these persons are out of God's favour; yet, according to 
your account of the matter, they have not faith." "Do you think 
these persons believe and practise all that is brought home to them 
as being in Scripture?" asked his companion. "Certainly they do," 
answered Charles, "as far as man can judge." "Then perhaps they 
may be practising the virtue of faith; if there are passages in it to 
which they are insensible, as about the sacraments, penance, and 
extreme unction, or about the See of Peter, I should in charity think 
that these passages had never been brought home or apphed to their 
minds and consciences,— just as a Pope's Bull may be for a time 
unknown in a distant part of the Church. They may be in involun- 
tary ignorance. Yet I fear that, taking the whole nation, they are 
few among many." Charles said, this did not fully meet the ditfi- 
culty; faith, in the case of these persons, at least was not faith in the 
word of the Church. His companion would not allow this; he said 
they received the Scripture on the testimony of the Church, that the 
Scripture represented the whole word of God committed to the 
Church, and the like. 

Presently Charles said, "It is to me a great mystery how the 
English people, as a whole, is ever to have faith again; is there evidence 
enough for faith?" His new friend looked surprised and not over- 
pleased; "Surely," he said, "in matter of fict, a man may have more 
evidence for believing the Church to be the messenger of God, than 



he has for beheving the Gospels to be from God. If, then, he ahready 
beheves the latter, why should he not beheve the former?" "But the 
behef in the Gospels is a traditional belief," said Charles; "that makes 
all the difference. I cannot see how a nation like England, which has 
lost the faith, ever can recover it. Hence, in the matter of conversion. 
Providence has generally visited simple and barbarous nations." 
"The converts of the Roman empire were, I suppose, a considerable 
exception," said the priest. "Still, it seem^s to me a great difficulty," 
answered Charles; "I do not see, when the dogmatic structure is 
once broken down, how it is ever to be built up again. I fancy there 
is a passage somewhere in Carlyle's French Revolution on the subject, 
in wliich the author laments over the madness of men's destroying 
what they could not replace, what it would take centuries and a 
combination of fortunate circumstances to reproduce, an external 
received creed. I am not denying, God forbid! the objectivity of 
revelation, or saying that faith is a sort of happy and expedient 
delusion; but, really, the evidence for revealed doctrine is so built 
up on probabihties, that I do not see what is to introduce it into a 
civilised community, where reason has been cultivated to the utmost, 
and argument is the test of truth. Many a man will say, 'Oh, that 
I had been educated a Cathohc!' but he has not been; and he fmds 
himself unable, though wishing, to beheve, for he has not evidence 
enough to subdue his reason. What is to make him beheve?" His 
fellow-traveller had for some time shewn signs of uneasiness; when 
Charles stopped, he said shortly, but quietly, "What is to make him 
beheve! the tpill, liis mil.'' 

Charles hesitated; he proceeded; "If there is evidence enough to 
believe Scripture, and we see that there is, I repeat, there is more than 
enough to believe the Church. The evidence is not in fault; aU it 
requires is to be brought home or apphed to the mind; if belief does 
not then follow, the fault lies with the will." "Well," said Charles, 
"I think there is a general feeling among educated Anglicans, that the 
claims of the Roman Church do not rest on a sufficiently intellectual 
basis; that the evidences, or notes, were well enough for a rude age, 
not for this. This is what makes me despair of the growth of Cathol- 
icism." His companion looked round curiously at him, and then 
said quietly, "Depend upon it, there is quite evidence enough for a 
moral conviction that the Catholic or Roman Church, and none other, 
is the voice of God." "Do you mean," said Charles, with a beating 



heart, "that before conversion one can attain to a present abiding 
actual conviction of this truth?" "I do not know," answered the 
other; "but at least he may have habitual moral certainty; I mean, 
a conviction, and one only, steady, without rival conviction, or 
even reasonable doubt, present to him when he is most composed 
and in his hours of solitude, and flashing on him from time to time, 
as through clouds, when he is in the world; — a conviction to this 
effect, 'The Roman Catholic Church is the one only voice of God, 
the one only way of salvation.' " "Then you mean to say," said 
Charles, while his heart beat faster, "that such a person is under 
no duty to wait for clearer light." "He will not have, he cannot 
expect, clearer light before conversion. Certainty in its highest sense 
is the reward of those who, by an act of the will, embrace the truth, 
when nature, like a coward, shrinks. You must make a venture; 
faith is a venture before a man is a Catholic; it is a grace after it. 
You approach the Church in the way of reason, you live in it in the 
light of the Spirit." 

Charles said that he feared there was a great temptation operating 
on many well-informed and excellent men, to fmd fault with the 
evidence for Catholicity, and to give over the search, on the excuse 
that there were arguments on both sides. "It is not one set of men," 
answered his companion; "it is the grievous deficiency in Englishmen 
altogether. Englishmen have many gifts, faith they have not. Other 
nations, inferior to them in many things, still have the faith. Nothing 
will stand in place of it; not a sense of the beauty of Catholicism, or 
of its awfulness, or of its antiquity; not an appreciation of the sym- 
pathy which it shews towards sinners; not an admiration of the 
Martyrs and early Fathers, and a delight in their writings. Individuals 
may display a touching gentleness, or a conscientiousness which 
demands our reverence; still, till they have faith, they have not the 
foundation, and their superstructure will fall. They will not be 
blessed, they will do nothing in religious matters, till they begin by 
an act of unreserved faith in the word of God, whatever it be; till 
they go out of themselves; till they cease to make something within 
them their standard, till they oblige their wiU to perfect what reason 
leaves, sufficient indeed, but incomplete. And when tlicy shall 
recognise this defect in themselves, and try to remedy it, then they 
will recognise much more; they will be on the road very shortly 
to be Catholics." 



There was nothing in all this exactly new to Charles; but it was 
pleasant to hear it from the voice of another, and him a priest. Thus 
he had sympathy and authority, and felt he was restored to himself. 
The conversation stopped. After a while he disclosed to his new 
friend the errand wliich took him to London, which, after what 
Charles had already been saying, could be no great surprise to him. 
The latter knew the Superior of San Michaele, and taking out a card, 
wrote upon it a few words of introduction for him. By this time they 
had reached Paddington; and before the train had well stopped, the 
priest had taken his small carpet-bag from under his seat, wrapped his 
cloak around him, stepped out of the carriage, and was walking out 
of sight at a brisk pace. 


Reding naturally wished to take the important step he was meditat- 
ing as quietly as he could; and had taken what he considered satis- 
factory measures for this purpose. But such arrangements often 
turn out very differently from their promise; and so it was in his 

The Passionist House was in the eastern part of London; so far 
well; — and as he knew in the neighbourhood a respectable pubhsher 
in the reHgious line, with whom his father had dealt, he had written 
to him to bespeak a room in his house for the few days, which he 
trusted would suffice for the process of his reception. What was to 
happen to him after it, he left for the advice he might get from those 
in whose hands he found himself. It was now Wednesday; he hoped 
to have two days to prepare himself for his confession, and then he 
proposed to present himself before those who were to receive it. His 
better plan would have been, to have gone to the Religious House at 
once; where doubtless the good fathers would have lodged him, 
secured him from intrusion, and given him the best advice how to 
proceed. But we must indulge him, if, doing so great a work, he 
likes to do it in his own way; nor must we be hard on him, though it 
be not the best way. 

On arriving at his destination, he saw in the deportment of his 
host grounds for concluding that his coming was not only expected, 



but understood. Doubtless, then, the paragraph of the 'Oxford 
Gazette' had been copied into the London papers; nor did it rcHevc 
his unpleasant surprise, to find, as he passed to his room, that the 
worthy bibliopolist had a reading-room attached to his shop, which 
was far more perilous to his privacy than a coffee-room would have 
been. He was not obliged, however, to mix with the various parties 
who seemed to frequent it; and he determined as far as possible to 
confine himself to his apartment. The rest of the day he employed 
in writing letters to friends; his conversation of the morning had 
tranquillised him; he went to bed peaceful and happy, slept soundly, 
rose late, and, refreshed in mind and body, turned his thoughts to the 
serious duties of the day. 

Breakfast over, he gave a considerable time to devotional exercises, 
and then opening his writing-desk, addressed himself to his work. 
Hardly had he got into it, when his landlord made his appearance; 
and, with many apologies for his intrusion, and a hope that he was 
not going to be impertinent, proceeded to inquire if Mr. Reding 
was a Catholic. "The question had been put to him, and he thought 
he might venture to solicit an answer from the person who could 
give the most authentic information." Here was an interruption, 
vexatious in itself, and perplexing in the form in which it came 
upon him; it would be absurd to reply that he was on the point of 
becoming a Catholic, so he shortly answered in the negative. Mr. 
Mumford then informed him that there were two friends of Mr. 
Reding's below, who wished very much to have a few minutes* 
conversation with him. Charles could make no intelligible objection 
to the request; and in the course of a few minutes their knock was 
heard at the room-door. 

On his answering it, two persons presented themselves, apparently 
both strangers to him. This, however, at the moment was a relief; for 
vague fears and surmises had begun to flit across his mind as to the 
faces which were to make their appearance. The younger of the two, 
who had round full cheeks, with a nose turned up towards the right 
eye, and a shrill voice, advanced confidently, and seemed to expect 
a recognition. It broke upon Charles that he had seen him before, 
but he could not tell where. "I ought to know your face," he said. 
"Yes, Mr. Reding," answered the person addressed, "you may 
recollect me at College." "Ah, I remember perfectly," said Red- 
ing; "Jack, the kitchen-boy at St. Saviour's." "Yes," said Jack; "I 



came when young Tom was promoted into Dennis's place." Then 
he added, with a solenm shake of the head, "I have got promotion 
now." "So it seems, Jack," answered Reding; "but what are you? 
Speak." "Ah, sir," said Jack, "we must converse in a tone of befitting 
seriousness;" and he added, in a deep inarticulate voice, his hps not 
being suffered to meet together, "Sir, I stand next to an Angel now." 
"A what? Angel? Oh, I know," cried Charles; "it's some sect; the 
Sandemanians" — "Sandemanians !" interrupted Jack; "we hold them 
in abhorrence; they are levellers; they bring in disorder and every 
evil work." "I beg pardon, but I know it is some sect, though I don't 
recollect what. I've heard about it. Well, tell me, Jack, what are 
you?" "I am," answered Jack, as if he vv^ere confessing at the tribunal 
of a Propraetor, "I am a member of the Holy Catholic Church." 
"That's right, Jack," said Reding; "but it's not distinctive enough; 
so are we all; every one will say as much." "Hear me out, Mr. 
Reding, sir," answered Jack, waving his hand; "hear me, but strike; 
I repeat, I am a member of the Holy Cathohc Church assembling in 
Huggermugger Lane." "Ah," said Charles, "I see; that's what the 
'gods' call you; now, what do men?" "Men," said Jack, not under- 
standing, however, the allusion — "men call us Christians professing 
the opinions of the late Rev. Edward Iriving, B.D." "I ujiderstand 
perfectly now," said Reding; "Irvingites — I recollect" — "No, sir," 
he said, "not Irvingites; we do not follow man; we follow wherever 
the Spirit leads us; we have given up Tongue. But I ought to intro- 
duce you to my friend, who is more than an Angel," he proceeded 
modestly, "who has more than the tongue of men and angels, being 
nothing short of an Apostle, sir. Mr. Reding, here's the Rev. 
Alexander Highfly. Mr. Highfly, this is Mr. Reding." 

Mr. Highfly was a man of gentlemanlike appearance and mamier; 
his language was refmed, and liis conduct was dehcate; so much so 
tliat Charles at once changed his tone in speaking to him. He came 
to Mr. Reding, he said, from a sense of duty; and there was nothing 
in his conversation to clash with this profession. He explained that 
he had heard of Mr. Reding's being unsettled in his religious views, 
and he would not lose the opportunity of attempting to obtain so 
valuable an accession to the cause to which he had dedicated himself. 
"I see," said Charles, smiling, "I am in the market." "It is the bargain 
of Glaucus with Diomede," answered Mr. Higlifly; "for which I am 
asking your co-operation. I am giving you the fellowship of 



apostles." "It is, I recollect, one of the characteristics of your body," 
said Charles, "to have an order of Apostles, in addition to Bishops, 
Priests, and Deacons." "Rather," said his visitor, "it is the special 
characteristic; for we acknowledge the orders of the Church of 
England. We are but completing the Church system by restoring the 
Apostolic College." "What I should complain of," said Charles, 
"were I at all inclined to listen to your claims, would be the very 
different views which different members of your body put forward." 
"You must recollect, sir," answered Mr. Highfly, "that we are under 
divine teaching, and truth is but gradually communicated to the 
Church. We do not pledge ourselves what we shall believe to- 
morrow, by any thing we say to-day." "Certainly," answered 
Reding, "things have been said to me by your teachers which I must 
suppose were only private opinions, though they seemed to be 
more." "But I was saying," said Mr. Highfly, "that at present we are 
restoring the Gentile Apostolate. The Church of England has 
Bishops, Priests, and Deacons, but a scriptural Church has more; it is 
plain it ought to have Apostles. In Scripture Apostles had the 
supreme authority, and the three Anglican orders were but sub- 
ordinate to them." "I am disposed to agree with you there," said 
Charles. Mr. Higlifly looked surprised and pleased. "We are 
restoring," he said, "the Church to a more scriptural state; perhaps 
then we may reckon on your co-operation in doing so? We do not 
ask you to secede from the Estabhshment, but to acknowledge the 
Apostolic authority, to which all ought to submit." "But does it not 
strike you, Mr. Highfly," answered Reding, "that there is a body of 
Christians, and not an inconsiderable one, which maintains with you, 
and, what is more, has always preserved, that true and liigher 
Apostohc succession in the Church; a body, I mean, which, in 
addition to Episcopacy, beheves that there is a standing ordinance 
above Episcopacy, and gives it the name of the Apostolate?" "On 
the contrary," answered Mr. Highfly, "I consider that we are restor- 
ing what has lain dormant ever since the time of St. Paul; nay, I will 
say it is an ordinance which never has been carried into effect at all, 
though it was in the divine design from the first. You will observe 
that the Apostles were Jews; but there never has been a Gentile 
Apostolate. St. Paul indeed was Apostle of the Gentiles, but the 
design begun in him has hitherto been frustrated. He went up to 
Jerusalem against the solemn warning of the Spirit; now we are 



raised up to complete that work of the Spirit, which was stopped by 
the inadvertence of the first Apostle." 

Jack interposed: he should be very glad, he said, to know what 
religious persuasion it was, besides his own, which Mr. Reding 
considered to have preserved the succession of Apostles, as something 
distinct from Bishops. "It is quite plain whom I mean — the 
Catholics," answered Charles. "The Popedom is the true Apostolate, 
the Pope is the successor of the Apostles, particularly of St. Peter." 
"We are very well inclined to the Roman Catholics," answered Mr. 
Highily, with some hesitation; "we have adopted a great part of their 
ritual; but we are not accustomed to consider that we resemble them 
in what is our characteristic and cardinal tenet." "Allow me to say it, 
Mr. Higlifly," said Reding, "it is a reason for every Irvingite — I 
mean, every member of your persuasion — becoming a Catholic. 
Your own religious sense has taught you that there ought to be an 
Apostolate in the Church. You consider that the authority of the 
Apostles was not temporary, but essential and fundamental. What 
that authority was, we see in St. Paul's conduct towards St. Timothy. 
He placed him in the See of Ephesus, he sent him a charge, and, in 
fact, he was his overseer or Bishop. He had the care of all the 
Churches. Now this is precisely the power which the Pope claims, 
and has ever claimed; and, moreover, he has claimed it, as being the 
successor, and the sole proper successor, of the Apostles, though 
Bishops may be improperly such also.^ And hence Catholics call him 
Vicar of Christ, Bishop of Bishops, and the like; and, I believe, 
consider that he, and not the Bishop, is the true pastor or ruler of the 
Church — the source of jurisdiction, the judge of controversies, and 
the centre of unity — as having the powers of the Apostles, and 
specially of St. Peter." Mr. Highfly kept silence. "Don't you tliink, 
then, it would be well," continued Charles, "that, before coming to 
convert me, you should first join the Catholic Church? at least, you 
would urge your doctrine upon me with more authority if you came 
as a member of it. And I will tell you frankly, that you would fmd it 
easier to convert me to Catholicism than to your present persuasion." 
Jack looked at Mr. Highfly, as if hoping for some decisive reply to 
what was a new view to him; but Mr. Highfly took a different line. 

^ "Successores sunt, sed ita ut potius Vicarii dicendi sunt Apostolorum, quam 
successores; contra, Romanus Pontifex, quia vcrus Petri successor est, nonnisi 
per quendam abusum ejus vicarius diceretur." — Zaccar. Atitifebr. p. 130. 



"Well, sir," he said, "I do not see that any good will come by our 
continuing the interview; but your last remark leads me to observe 
that proselytisni was not our object in coming here. We did not 
propose more than to inform you that a great work was going on, to 
direct your attention to it, and to invite your co-operation. We 
do not controvert; we only wish to deliver our testimony, and then 
to leave the matter. I believe, then, we need not take up your 
valuable time longer." With that he got up, and Jack with him, and, 
with many courteous bows and smiles, which were duly responded 
to by Reding, the two visitors took their departure. 

"Well, I might have been worse off," thought Reding, "really 
they are gentle, well-mannered animals, after all. I might have been 
attacked with some of your furious Exeter-Hall beasts; but now to 
business . . . What's that?" he added, Alas, it was a soft, distinct 
tap at the door; there was no mistake. "Who's there? come in!" he 
cried; upon which the door gently opened, and a young lady, not 
without personal attractions, presented herself. Charles started up 
with vexation; but there was no help for it, and he was obliged to 
hand her a chair, and then to wait all expectation, or rather all im- 
patience, to be informed of her mission. For a while she did not 
speak, but sat with her head on one side, looking at her parasol, the 
point of which she fixed on the carpet, while she slowly described a 
circumference with the handle. At length she asked, without raising 
her eyes, whether it was true, — and she spoke slowly, and in what 
is called a spiritual tone, — whether it was true, the information had 
been given her, that Mr. Reding, the gentleman she had the honour 
of addressing — whether it was true, that he was in search of a religion 
more congenial to his feelings than that of the Church of England. 
"Mr. Reding could not give her any satisfaction on the subject of 
her inquiry;" — he answered shortly, and had some difhculty in 
keeping from rudeness in his tone. The interrogation, she went on to 
say, perhaps might seem impertinent; but she had a motive. Some 
dear sisters of hers were engaged in organising a new rehgious body, 
and Mr. Reding's accession, counsel, assistance, would be particularly 
valuable; the more so, because as yet they had not any gentleman of 
University-education among them. "May I ask," said Charles, "the 
name of the intended persuasion?" "The name," she answered, 
"is not fixed; indeed, this is one of the points on which we should 
covet the privilege of the advice of a gentleman so well qualified as 



Mr. Reding to assist us in our deliberations." "And your tenets, 
ma'am?" "Here too," she replied, "there is much still to be done; 
the tenets are not fixed either, that is, they are but sketched; and we 
shall prize your suggestions much. Nay, you will of course have the 
opportunity, as you would have the right, to nominate any doctrine 
to wliich you may be especially inclined." Charles did not know how 
to answer to so liberal an offer. She continued: "Perhaps it is right, 
Mr. Reding, that I should tell you something more about myself 
personally. I was born in the communion of the Church of England; 
for a while I was a member of the New Connexion; and at present," 
she added, still with drooping head and languid sing-song voice, 
"at present, Mr. Reding, I am a Plymouth brother." It got too 
absurd; and Charles, who had for an instant been amused, now 
became fuU of the one thought, how to get her out of the room. 

It was obviously left to her to keep up the conversation; so she said 
presently, "We are all for a pure religion." "From what you tell 
me," said Charles, "I gather that every member of your new com- 
munity is allowed to name one or two doctrines of his owoi." "We 
are all scriptural," she made answer, "and therefore are all one; we 
may differ, but we agree. Still it is so, as you say, Mr. Reding. I'm 
for election and assurance; our dearest friend is for perfection; and 
another sweet sister is for the second advent. But we desire to include 
among us all souls who are thirsting after the river of Ufe, whatever 
their personal views. I believe you are partial to sacraments and 
ceremonies?" Charles tried to cut short the interview by denying that 
he had any religion to seek after, or any decision to make; but it was 
easier to end the conversation than the visit. He threw himself back 
in his chair in despair, and half closed liis eyes. "Oh, those good 
Irvingites," he thought, "blameless men, who came only to protest, 
and vanished at the first word of opposition; but now thrice has the 
church-clock struck the quarters since her entrance, and I don't see 
why she's not to stop here as long as it goes on striking, since she has 
stopped so long. She has not in her the elements of progress and 
decay. She'll never die; what is to become of me?" 

Nor was she doomed to fmd a natural death; for, when the case 
seemed hopeless, a noise was heard on the staircase, and, with scarcely 
the apology for a knock, a wild gawky man made his appearance, 
and at once cried out, "I hope, sir, it's not a bargain yet; I hope it*s 
not too late; discharge this young woman, Mr. Reding, and let me 



teach you the old truth, which never has been repealed." There was 
no need of discharging her; for, as kindly as she had unfolded her 
leaves and flourished in the sun of Reding's forbearance, so did she 
at once shrink and vanish — one could hardly tell how — before the 
rough accents of the intruder; and Charles suddenly found himself in 
the hands of a new tormentor. "This is intolerable," he said to 
himself; and jumping up, he cried, "Sir, excuse me, I am particularly- 
engaged this morning, and I must beg to decline the favour of your 
visit." "What did you say, sir?" said the stranger; and, taking a 
note-book and pencil from his pocket, he began to look up in 
Charles's face and write down his words, saying half aloud, as he 
wrote, "declines the favour of my visit." Then he looked up again, 
keeping liis pencil upon his paper, and said, "Now, sir." Reding 
moved towards him, and spreading his arms as one drives sheep and 
poultry in one direction, he repeated, looking towards the door, 
"Really, sir, I feel the honour of your call; but another day, sir, 
another day. It is too much, too much," "Too much?" said the 
intruder; "and I waiting below so long! That pretty girl has been 
good part of an hour here, and now you can't give me five minutes, 
sir," "Why, sir," answered Charles, "I am sure you are come on an 
errand as fruitless as hers; and I am sick of these religious discussions, 
and want to be to myself, and to save you trouble." "Sick of rehgious 
discussion," said the stranger to himself, as he wrote down the words 
in his note-book. Charles did not deign to notice his act or to explain 
his own expression; he stood prepared to renew his action of motion- 
ing him to the door. His tormentor then said, "You may like to 
know my name; it is Zerubbabel." 

Vexed as Reding was, he felt that he had no right to visit the 
tediousness of his former visitor upon his present; so he forced himself 
to reply, "Zerubbabel; indeed; and is Zerubbabel your Christian 
name, sir, or your surname?" "It is both at once, Mr. Reding," 
answered Zerubbabel, "or rather, I have no Christian name, and 
Zerubbabel is my one Jewish designation." "You are come, then, to 
inquire whether I am likely to become a Jew." "Stranger things have 
happened," answered his visitor; "for instance, I myself was once a 
deacon in the Church of England." "Then you're not a Jew?" said 
Charles. "I am a Jew by choice," he said. "After much prayer and 
study of Scripture, I have come to the conclusion, that, as Judaism 
was the first religion, so it's to be the last. Christianity, I consider an 



episode in the history of revelation." "You are not likely to have 
many followers in such a behef," said Charles; "we are all for 
progress now, not for retrograding." "I differ from you, Mr. 
Reding," replied Zerubbabel; "see what the Establishment is doing; 
it has sent a Bishop to Jerusalem." "That is rather with a view of 
making the Jews Christians, than the Christians Jews," said Reding. 
Zerubbabel wrote down: "thinks Bishop of Jerusalem is to convert 
the Jews;" then, "I differ from you, sir; on the contrary, I fancy the 
excellent Bishop has in view to revive the distinction between Jew 
and Gentile, which is one step towards the supremacy of the former; 
for if the Jews have a place at all in Christianity, as Jews, it must be the 
first place." Charles thought he had better let him have his talk out; 
so Zerubbabel proceeded: "The good Bishop in question knows well 
that the Jew is the elder brother of the Gentile, and it is his special 
mission to restore a Jewish episcopate to the See of Jerusalem. The 
Jewish succession has been suspended since the time of the Apostles. 
And now you see the reason of my calling on you, Mr. Reding. 
It is reported that you lean towards the Catholic Church; but I wish 
to suggest to you that you have mistaken the centre of unity. The See 
of James at Jerusalem, is the true centre, not the See of Peter at Rome. 
Peter's power is a usurpation on James's. I consider the present Bishop 
of Jerusalem the true Pope. The Gentiles have been in power too long; 
it is now the Jews' turn." "You seem to allow," said Charles, "that 
there ought to be a centre of unity and a Pope." "Certainly," said 
Zerubbabel, "and a ritual too, but it should be the Jewish. I am 
collecting subscriptions for the rebuilding of the Temple on Mount 
Moriah; I hope too to negotiate a loan, and we shall have Temple 
stock, yielding, I calculate, at least four per cent." "It has hitherto 
been thought a sin," said Reding, "to attempt rebuilding the Temple. 
According to you, Julian the Apostate went the better way to work." 
"His motive was wrong, sir," answered the other; "but his act was 
good. The way to convert the Jews is, first to accept their rites. This 
is one of the great discoveries of this age. We must make the first 
step towards them. For myself, I have adopted all, which the present 
state of their religion renders possible. And I don't despair to see the 
day when bloody sacrifices will be offered on the Temple Mount, 
as of old." Here he came to a pause; and Charles making no reply, 
he said, "May I not hope you will give your name to this religious 
object, and adopt the old ritual? The Catholic is quite of yesterday 



compared with it." Charles answering in the negative, Zcrubbabel 
wrote down in his book: "Refuses to take part in our scheme;" and 
disappeared from the room, as suddenly as he entered it. 


Charles's trials were not at an end; and we suspect the reader will 
give a shudder at the news, as having a very material share in the 
infliction. Yet the reader's case has this great alleviation, that he 
takes up this narrative in an idle hour, and Charles encountered the 
reality in a very busy and anxious one. So, however, it was; not any 
great time elapsed after the retreat of Zerubbabel, when his landlord 
again appeared at the door. He assured Mr. Reding that it was no 
fault of his that the last two persons had called on him; that the lady 
had slipped by him, and the gentleman had forced his way; but that 
he now really did wish to solicit an interview for a personage of great 
literary pretensions, who sometimes dealt with him, and who had 
come from the West End for the honour of an interview with Mr. 
Reding. Charles groaned, but only one reply was possible; the day 
was already wasted; and with a sort of dull resignation he gave 
permission for the introduction of the stranger. 

It was a pasty-faced man of about thirty-five, who, when he spoke, 
arched his eyebrows, and had a peculiar smile. He began by expres- 
sing his apprehension that Mr. Reding must have been wearied by- 
impertinent and unnecessary visitors — visitors without intellect, who 
knew no than better to obtrude their fanaticism on persons who did 
but despise it. "I know more about the Universities," he continued, 
"than to suppose that any congeniality can exist between their 
members and the mass of religious sectarians. You have had very 
distinguished men among you, sir, at Oxford, of very various 
schools, yet all able men, and distinguished in the pursuit of Truth, 
though they have arrived at contradictory opinions." Not knowing 
what he was driving at. Reding remained in an attitude of expecta- 
tion. "I belong," he continued, "to a Society which is devoted to 
the extension among all classes of the pursuit of Truth, Any philo- 
sophical mind, Mr. Reding, must have felt deep interest in your own 
party in the University. Our Society in fact considers you to be 
distinguished Confessors in that all-momentous occupation; and I 



have thought I could not pay yourself individually, whose name has 
lately honourably appeared in the papers, a better compliment than to 
get you elected a member of our Truth Society. And here is your 
diploma," he added, handing a sheet of paper to him. Charles glanced 
his eye over it; it was a paper, part engraving, part print, part manu- 
script. An emblem of truth was in the centre, represented not by a 
radiating sun or star, as might be expected, but as the moon under 
total echpse, surrounded, as by cherub faces, by the heads of Socrates, 
Cicero, Juhan, Abelard, Luther, Benjamin Franklin, and Lord 
Brougham. Then followed some sentences to the effect, that the 
London Branch Association of the British and Foreign Truth Society, 
having evidence of the zeal in the pursuit of Truth of Charles Reding, 
Esq., member of Oxford University, had unanimously elected him 
into their number, and had assigned him the dignified and responsible 
office of associate and corresponding member. "I thank the Truth 
Society very much," said Charles, when he got to the end of the 
paper, "for this mark of their good will; yet I regret to have scruples 
about accepting it, till some of the patrons are changed, whose heads 
are prefixed to the diploma. For instance, I do not like to be under 
the shadow of the Emperor JuUan." "You would respect his love of 
Truth, I presume," said Mr. Batts. "Not much, I fear," said Charles, 
"seeing it did not hinder him from deliberately embracing error." 
"No, not so," answered Mr. Batts; "from embracing what he 
thought Truth; and Julian, I conceive, cannot be said to have deserted 
the Truth, because, in fact, he always was in pursuit of it." "I fear," 
said Reding, "there is a very serious difference between your 
principles and my ov^oi on this point." "Ah, my dear sir, a httle 
attention to our principles will remove it," said Mr. Batts: "let me 
beg your acceptance of tliis little pamphlet, in wliich you will find 
some fundamental truths stated, almost in the way of aphorisms. I 
wish to direct your attention to page 8, where they are drawn out." 
Charles turned to the page, and read as follows: 

On the pursuit of Truth. 

1. It is uncertain whether Truth exists. 

2. It is certain that it cannot be found. 

3. It is folly to boast of possessing it. 

4. Man's work and duty, as man, consists, not in possessing, but 
in seeking it. 



5. His happiness and true dignity consists in the pursuit. 

6. The pursuit of Truth is an end, to be engaged in for its own 

7. As philosophy is the love, not the possession of wisdom, so 
religion is the love, not the possession, of Truth. 

8. As Catholicism begins with faith, so Protestantism ends with 

9. As there is disinterestedness in seeking, so is there selfishness in 
claiming to possess. 

10. The martyr of Truth is he who dies professing that it is 
a shadow. 

11. A life-long martyrdom is this, to be ever changing. 

12. The fear of error is the bane of inquiry. 

Charles did not get farther than these, but others followed of a 
similar character. He returned the pamphlet to Mr. Batts. "I see 
enough," he said, "of the opinions of the Truth Society, to admire 
their ingenuity and originality, but, excuse me, not their good sense. 
It is impossible I should subscribe to what is so plainly opposed to 
Christianity." Mr. Batts looked annoyed. "We have no wish to 
oppose Christianity," he said; "we only wish Christianity not to 
oppose us. It is very hard that we may not go our own way, when 
we are quite willing that others should go theirs. It seems imprudent, 
I conceive, in this age, to represent Christianity as hostile to the 
progress of the mind, and to turn into enemies of revelation those 
who do sincerely wish to 'live and let live.' " "But contradictions 
cannot be true," said Charles: "if Christianity says that Truth can 
be found, it must be an error to state that it cannot be found." "I 
conceive it to be intolerant," persisted Mr. Batts: "you will grant, i 
suppose, that Christianity has nothing to do with astronomy or 
geology; why, then, should it be allowed to interfere with philo- 
sophy?" It was useless proceeding in the discussion; Charles repressed 
the answer which rose on his tongue of the essential connexion of 
philosophy with religion; a silence ensued of several minutes, and 
Mr. Batts at length took the hint, for he rose with a disappointed air, 
and wished him good morning. 

It mattered little now whether he was left to himself or not, except 
that conversation harassed and fretted him; for as to turning his mind 
to the subjects which were to have been his occupation that morning, 

N— Y 337 


he was by this tmie far too much wearied and dissipated to undertake 
them. On Mr. Batts's departure, then, he did not make the attempt, 
but sat before the fire, dull and depressed, and in danger of relapsing 
into the troubled thoughts from which his railroad companion had 
extricated him. When, then, at the end of half an hour, a new knock 
was heard at the door, he admitted the postulant with a calm in- 
difference, as if fortune had now done her worst, and he had nothing 
to fear. A middle-aged man made his appearance, sleek and plump, 
who seemed to be in good circumstances, and to have profited by 
them. His glossy black dress, in contrast with the pink colour of his 
face and throat, for he wore no collars, and his staid and pompous 
bearing, added to by his rapid delivery, when he spoke, gave him 
much the look of a farm-yard turkey-cock, in the eyes of any one 
who was less disgusted with seeing new faces than Reding was at that 
moment. The new-comer looked sharply at him as he entered. 
"Your most obedient," he said abruptly; "you seem in low spirits, 
my dear sir; but sit down, Mr. Reding, and give me the opportunity 
of offering to you a little good advice. You may guess what I am 
by my appearance: I speak for myself; I will say no more; I can be of 
use to you. Mr. Reding," he continued, pulling his chair towards 
him, and putting out liis hand as if he was going to paw him, "have 
not you made a mistake, in thinking it necessary to go to the Romish 
Church for a relief of your religious difficulties?" "You have not 
yet heard from me, sir," answered Charles gravely, "that I have any 
difficulties at all. Excuse me if I am abrupt; I have had many persons 
calling on me with your errand. It is very kind of you, but I don't 
want advice; I was a fool to come here." "Well, my dear Mr. 
Reding, but listen to me," answered his persecutor, spreading out the 
fmgers of his right hand, and opening his eyes wide; "I am right, I 
believe, in apprehending that your reason for leaving the Estabhsh- 
ment is, that you cannot carry out the surplice in the pulpit and the 
candlesticks on the table. Now, don't you do more than you need? 
Pardon me, but you're like a person who should turn the Thames in 
upon his house, when he merely wanted his door-steps scrubbed. 
Why become a convert to Popery, when you can obtain your object 
in a cheaper and better way? Set up for yourself, my dear sir — set up 
for yourself; form a new denomination, sixpence will do it; and then 
you may have your surplice and candlesticks to your heart's content, 
without denying the gospel, or running into the horrible abominations 


Cii. \i^l'-^ 


of the Scarlet Woman." And he sat upright in his chair, with his 
hands flat on his extended knees, watching with a self-satisfied air the 
effect of his words upon Reding. 

"I have had enough of this," said poor Charles; "you, indeed, are 
but one of a number, sir, and would say you had nothing to do with 
the rest; but I cannot help regarding you as the fifth, or sixth, or 
seventh person — I can't count them — who has been with me this 
morning, giving me, though with the best intentions, advice which 
has not been asked for. I don't know you, sir: you have no introduc- 
tion to me; you have not even told me your name. It is not usual to 
discourse on such personal matters with strangers. Let me, then, 
thank you first for your kindness in coming, and next for the addi- 
tional kindness of going." And Charles rose up. 

His visitor did not seem inclined to move, or to notice what he had 
said. He stopped a while, opened his handkerchief with much 
deliberation, and blew his nose; then he continued; "Kitchens is my 
name, sir; Dr. Kitchens: your state of mind, Mr. Reding, is not 
unknown to me; you are at present under the influence of the old 
Adam, and indeed in a melancholy way. I was not unprepared 
for it; and I have put in my pocket a little tract, which I shall press 
upon you with all the Christian solicitude which brother can shew 
towards brother. Here it is; I have the greatest confidence in it; 
perhaps you have heard the name; it is known as Kitchens's Spiritual 
Elixir. The Elixir has enlightened millions; and, I will take on 
me to say, will convert you in twenty-four hours. Its operation 
is mild and pleasurable, and its eflfects are marvellous, prodigious, 
though it does not consist of more than eight duodecimo pages. 
Here's a list of testimonies to some of the most remarkable cases. 
I have known one hundred and two cases myself, in which it 
effected a saving change in six hours; seventy-nine in which its 
operation took place in as few as three; and twenty-seven where 
conversion followed instantaneously after the perusal. At once, 
poor sinners, who five minutes before had been like the demoniac 
in the gospel, were seen sitting 'clothed, and in their right mind.' 
Thus I speak within the mark, Mr. Reding, when I say I will warrant 
a change in you in twenty-four hours. I have never known but one 
instance in which it seemed to fail, and that was the case of a wretched 
old man, who held it in his hand a whole day in dead silence, widiout 
any apparent effect; but here cxccptio prohat rc^ulam, for on further 



inquiry we found he could not read. So the tract was slowly admin- 
istered to liini by another person; and before it was finished, I protest 
to you, Mr. Reding, he fell into a deep and healthy slumber, perspired 
profusely, and woke up at the end of twelve hours a new creature, 
perfectly new, brand new, and fit for heaven, whither he went in the 
course of the week. We are now making further experiments on its 
operation, and we find that even separate leaves of the tract have a 
proportionate effect. And, what is more to your own purpose, it 
is quite a specific in the case of Popery. It directly attacks the peccant 
matter, and all the trash about sacraments, saints, penance, purgatory, 
and good works is dislodged from the soul at once." 

Charles remained silent and grave, as one who was likely suddenly 
to break out into some strong act, rather than to condescend to any 
further parleying. Dr. Kitchens proceeded: "Have you attended any 
of the lectures delivered against the Mystic Babylon, or any of the 
public disputes which have been carried on in so many places? My 
dear friend Mr. Makanoise contested ten points with tliirty Jesuits 
— a good half of the Jesuits in London — and beat them upon all. Or 
have you heard any of the luminaries of Exeter Hall? There is Mr. 
Gabb; he is a Boanerges, a perfect Niagara, for his torrent of words; 
such momentum in his delivery; it is as rapid as it's strong; it's enough 
to knock a man down. He can speak seven hours running without 
fatigue; and last year he went through England, delivering, through 
the length and breadth of the land, one, and one only, awful protest 
against the apocalyptic witch of Endor. He began at Devonport and 
ended at Berwick, and surpassed himself on every delivery. At 
Berwick, his last exliibition, the effect was perfectly tremendous; a 
friend of mine heard it; he assures me, incredible as it may appear, 
that it shattered some glass in a neighbouring house; and two priests 
of Baal, who were with their day-school within a quarter of a mile 
of Mr. Gabb, were so damaged by the mere echo, that one forthwith 
took to his bed, and the other has walked on crutches ever since." 
He stopped a while, then he continued: "And what was it, do you 
think, Mr. Reding, which had this effect on them? Why, it was Mr. 
Gabb's notion about the sign of the beast in the Revelation: he 
proved, Mr. Reding — it was the most original liit in his speech — he 
proved that it was the sign of the Cross, the material Cross." 

The time at length was come; Reding could not bear more; and, 
as it happened, his visitor's offence gave him the means, as well as a 



cause, for punishing him. "Oh," he said suddenly, "then I suppose. 
Dr. Kitchens, you can't tolerate the Cross?" "Oh, no; tolerate it!" 
answered Dr. Kitchens; "it is Antichrist." "You can't bear the sight 
of it, I suspect, Dr. Kitchens?" "I can't endure it, sir; what true 
Protestant can?" "Then look here," said Charles, taking a small 
Crucifix out of his writing-desk; and he held it before Dr. Kitchens' 
face. Dr. Kitchens at once started on liis feet, and retreated. "What's 
that?" he said, and his face flushed up and then turned pale; "what's 
that? it's the thing itself;" and he made a snatch at it. "Take it away, 
Mr. Reding; it's an idol; I cannot endure it; take away the thing." 
"I declare," said Reding to himself, "it really has power over him;" 
and he still confronted it to Dr. Kitchens, wliile he kept it out of Dr. 
Kitchens's reach. "Take it away, Mr. Reding, I beseech you," cried 
Dr. Kitchens, still retreating, while Charles still pressed on him; 
"take it away, it's too much. Oh, oh! Spare me, spare me, Mr. 
Reding! — nehushtan — an idol! — oh, you young antichrist, you 
devil! — 'tis He, 'tis He — torment! — spare me, Mr. Reding!" And 
the miserable man began to dance about, still eyeing the sacred sign, 
and motioning it from him. Charles now had victory in his hands: 
there was, indeed, some difficulty in steering Dr. Kitchens to the door 
from the place where he had been sitting; but that once effected, 
he opened it with violence, and throwing himself on the staircase, he 
began jumping down two or three steps at a time, with such forgetful- 
ness of every thing but his own terror, that he came plump upon two 
persons, who, in rivalry of each other, were in the act of rushing up; 
and while he drove one against the rail, he fairly rolled the other to 
the bottom. 


Charles threw himself on his chair, burying the Crucifix in his 
bosom, quite worn out with his long trial and the sudden exertion 
in which it had just now been issuing. When a noise was heard at his 
door, and knocks succeeded, he took no further notice tlian to plant 
his feet on the fender, and bury his face in his hands. The summons 
at first was apparently from one person only, but his dcla\' in answer- 
ing it gave time for the arrival of another; and there was a brisk 
succession of alternate knocks from the two, which Charles let take 


^ t^cb2^ A^g-^^. 


its course. At length one of the rival candidates for admission, 
bolder than the other, slowly opened the door; when the other, 
who had impetuously scrambled up stairs after his fall, rushed in 
before him, crying out, "One word for the New Jerusalem!" "In 
charity," said Reding, without changing his attitude, "in charity, 
leave me alone. You mean it well, but I don't want you, sir; I don't 
jindeed. I've had Old Jerusalem here already, and Jewish Apostles, 
and Gentile Apostles, and free inquiry, and fancy religion, and 
Exeter Hall. What have I done? why can't I die out in peace? My. 
Jear sir, do go! I can't see you; I'm worn out." And he rose up 
and advanced towards him. "Call again, dear sir, if you are bent on 
talking with me; but excuse me, I really have had enough of it for 
one day. No fault of yours, my dear sir, that you have come the 
sixth or seventh." And he opened the door for him. "A madman 
nearly threw me down as I was coming up," said the person 
addressed, in some agitation. "Ten thousand pardons for his rude- 
ness, my dear sir, ten thousand pardons, but allow me;" and he 
bowed him out of the room. He then turned round to the other 
stranger, who had stood by in silence: "And you too, sir — is it 
possible!" His countenance changed to extreme surprise; it was Mr. 
Malcolm. Charles's thoughts flowed in a new current, and his 
tormentors were suddenly forgotten. 

The liistory of Mr. Malcolm's calling was simple. He had always 
been a collector of old books, and had often taken advantage of the 
stores of Charles's landlord in adding to his library. Passing through 
London to the Eastern Counties rail, he happened to call in; and as the 
worthy bookseller was not behind his own reading room in the 
diffusion of gossip, he learned that the Mr. Reding, who was on the 
point of seceding from the Establishment, was at that moment above 
stairs. He waited with impatience through Dr. Kitchens 's visit, and 
even then found himself, to his no small annoyance, in danger of 
being outstripped by the goo.d Swedenborgian. 

"How d'ye do, Charles?" he said at length, with not a little stiffness 
in his manner, while Charles had no less awkwardness in receiving 
him; "you have been holding a levee this morning; I thought I 
should never get to sec you. Sit you down; let us both sit down, 
and let me at last have a word or two with you." In spite of the 
diversified trial Charles had sustained from strangers that morning, 
there was no one perhaps whom he would have less desired to see 



than Mr. Malcolm. He could not help associating him with his 
father, yet he felt no opening of heart towards him, or respect for his 
judgment. His feeling was a mixture of prescriptive fear and friend- 
liness, attachment from old associations, and desire of standing well 
with him, but neither confidence nor real love. He coloured up and 
felt guilty, yet without a clear understanding why. "Well, Charles 
Reding," he said, "I think we know each other well enough for you 
to have given me a hint of what was going on as regards you." 
Charles said he had written to him only the evening before. "Ah, 
when there was not time to answer your letter," said Mr. Malcolm. 
Charles said he wished to spare so kind a friend, ... he bungled, 
and could not fmish his sentence. "A friend, who, of course, could 
give no advice," said Mr. Malcolm, dryly. Presently he said, "Were 
those people some of your new friends who were calling on you? 
They have kept me in the shop this three quarters of an hour; and the 
fellow who has just come down, nearly threw me over the baluster." 
"Oh no, sir, I know nothing of them; they were the most unwelcome 
of intruders." "As some one else seems to be," said Mr. Malcolm. 
Charles was very much hurt; the more so, because he had nothing to 
say; he kept silence. "Well, Charles," said Mr. Malcolm, not looking 
at him, "I have known you from this high; more, from a child in 
arms. A frank, open boy you were; I don't know what has spoiled you. 
These Jesuits, perhaps. ... It was not so in your father's lifetime." 
"My dear sir," said Charles, "it pierces me to the heart to hear you 
talk so. You have indeed always been most kind to me. If I have 
erred, it has been an error of judgment; and I am very sorry for it, 
and hope you will forgive it. I acted for the best; but I have been, 
as you must feel, in a most trying situation. My mother has knowTi 
what I was contemplating this year past." "Trying situation; fudge! 
What have you to do with situations? I could have told you a great 
deal about these Catholics; I know all about them. Error of judg- 
ment; don't tell me. I know how these things happen quite well. 
I have seen such things before; only I thought you a more sensible 
fellow. There was young Dalton of St. Cross; he goes abroad, and 
falls in with a smooth priest, who persuades the silly fellow that the 
Catholic Church is the ancient and true Church of England, the 
only religion for a gentleman; he is introduced to a Count this, and 
a Marchioness that, and returns a Catholic, There was another; what 
was his name? I forget it, of a Berkshire f unily. He is smitten witli 



a pretty face; nothing will serve but he must marry her; but she's 
a CathoUc, and can't marry a heretic; so he, forsooth, gives up the 
favour of his uncle, and his prospects in the county, for liis fair Juhet. 
There was another — but it's useless going on. And now I wonder 
what has taken you." 

All this was the best justification for Charles's not having spoken 
to Mr. Malcolm on the subject. That gentleman had had his own 
experience of tliirty or forty years, and, like some great philosophers, 
he made that personal experience of his the decisive test of the possible 
and the true. "I know them," he continued — "I know them; a set 
of hypocrites and sharpers. I could tell you such stories of what I 
fell in v/ith abroad. Those priests are not to be trusted. Did you ever 
know a priest?" "No," answered Charles. "Did you ever see a Popish 
chapel?" "No." "Do you know any thing of Cathohc books, 
CathoHc doctrine, Catholic morahty? I warrant it, not much." 
Charles looked very uncomfortable. "Then what makes you go to 
them?" Charles did not know what to say. "Silly boy," he went on, 
"you have not a word to say for yourself; it's all idle fancy. You are 
going as a bird to the fowler." 

Reding began to rouse himself; he felt he ought to say something; 
he felt that silence would tell against him. "Dear sir," he answered, 
"there's nothing but may be turned against one, if a person is so 
minded. Now, do think; had I known tliis or that priest, you would 
have said at once, *Ah, he came over you.' If I had been familiar with 
Catholic chapels, 'I was allured by the singing or the incense.' What 
can I have done better than keep myself to myself, go by my best 
reason, consult the friends whom I happened to fmd around me, as 
I have done, and wait in patience till I was sure of my convictions?" 
"Ah, that's the way with you youngsters," said Mr. Malcolm; "you 
all think you are so right; you do think so admirably, that older 
heads are worth notliing to the like of you. Well," he went on, 
putting on his gloves, "I see I am not in the way to persuade you. 
Poor dear Charlie, I grieve for you; what would your poor father 
have said, had he lived to see it? Poor Reding; he has been spared 
this. But perhaps it would not have happened. I know what the 
upshot will be; you will come back — come back you will to a dead 
certainty. We shall see you back, foolish boy, after you have had your 
gallop, over your ploughed field. Well, well; better than running 
wild. You must have your hobby; it might have been a worse; 



you might have run through your money. But perhaps you'll be 
giving it away, as it is, to some artful priest. It's grievous, grievous; 
your education thrown away, your prospects ruined, your poor 
mother and sisters left to take care of themselves. And you don't 
say a word to me." And he began musing. "A troublesome world; 
good bye, Charles; you are high and mighty now, and arc in full 
sail: you may come to your father's friend some day in a different 
temper. Good bye." There was no help for it; Charles's heart was 
full, but his head was wearied and confused, and his spirits sunk: for 
all these reasons he had not a word to say, and seemed to Mr. Malcolm 
either stupid or close. He could but wring warmly Mr. Malcolm's 
reluctant hand, and accompany him down to the street-door. 


"This will never do," said Charles, as he closed the door, and ran 
up stairs; "here is a day wasted, worse than wasted, wasted partly on 
strangers, partly on friends; and it's hard to say in which case a more 
thorough waste. I ought to have gone to the Convent at once." 
The thought flashed into his mind, and he stood over the fire dwelling 
on it. "Yes," he said, "I will delay no longer. How does time go? 
I declare it's four o'clock." He then thought again, "I'll get over my 
dinner, and then at once betake myself to my good Passionists." 

To the coflfee-house then he went, and, as it was some way off, 
it is not wonderful that it was near six before he arrived at the 
Convent. It was a plain brick building; money had not been so 
abundant as to overflow upon the exterior, after the expense of the 
interior had been provided for. And it was incomplete; a large 
church had been enclosed, but it was scarcely more than a shell, — 
altars indeed had been set up, but, for the rest, it had little more than 
good proportions, a broad sanctuary, a serviceable organ, and an 
effective choir. There was a range of buildings adjacent, capable of 
holding about half-a-dozen fathers; but the size of the church required 
a larger establishment. By this time, doubtless things are very differ- 
ent, but we are looking back at the first eft'orts of the English Con- 
gregation, when it had scarcely ceased to struggle for life, and when 
friends and members were but beginning to flow in. 



It was indeed but ten years, at that time, since the severest of 
modern rules had been introduced into England. Two centuries after 
the memorable era when St. Philip and St. Ignatius, making light of 
those bodily austerities of which they were personally so great masters, 
preached mortification of will and reason as more necessary for a 
civihsed age, — in the lukewarm and self-indulgent eighteenth cen- 
tury. Father Paul of the Cross was divinely m.oved to found a 
Congregation in some respects more ascetic than the primitive 
hermits and the orders of the middle age. It was not fast, or silence, 
or poverty which distinguished it, though here too it is not wanting 
in strictness; but in the cell of its venerable Founder, on the CeHan 
Hill, hangs an iron discipline or scourge, studded with nails, which is 
a memorial, not only of his own self-inflicted sufferings, but of those 
of his Italian family. Their object was as remarkable as their intensity; 
penance, indeed, is in one respect the end of all self-chastisement, but 
in the instance of the Passionists the use of the scourge is specially 
directed to the benefit of their neighbour. They apply the pain to 
the benefit of the holy souls in purgatory, or they undergo it to 
rouse a careless audience. On their missions, when their words seem 
uttered in vain, they have been known suddenly to undo their habit, 
and to scourge themselves with sharp knives or razors, crying out to 
the horrified people, that they would not shew mercy to their flesh, 
till they whom they v/ere addressing took pity on their own perisliing 
souls. Nor was it to their own countrymen alone that this self- 
consuming charity extended; how it so happened does not appear; 
perhaps a certain memento close to their house was the earthly cause; 
but so it was, that for many years the heart of Father Paul was 
expanded towards a northern nation, with which, humanly speaking, 
he had nothing to do. Over against St. John and St. Paul, the home 
of the Passionists on the Celian, rises the old church and monastery 
of San Gregorio, the womb, as it may be called, of English Chris- 
tianity. There had lived that great Pope, who is named our Apostle, 
who was afterwards called to the chair of St. Peter; and thence went 
forth, in and after his pontijGcate, Augustine, Paulinus, Justus, and the 
other Saints by whom our barbarous ancestors were converted. Their 
names, which are now written up upon the pillars of the portico, 
would almost seem to have issued forth, and crossed over, and con- 
fronted the venerable Paul; for, strange to say, the thought of England 
came into his ordinary prayers; and in his last years, after a vision 



during Mass, as if he had been Augustine or Mellitus, he talked of his 
"sons" in England. 

It was strange enough that even one Italian in the heart of Rome 
should at that time have ambitious thoughts of making novices or 
converts in this country; but, after the venerable Founder's death, his 
special interest in our distant isle shewed itself in another of the same 
Religion. On the Apennines, near Viterbo, there dwelt a shepherd- 
boy in the first years of this century, whose mind had early been 
drawn heavenward; and one day, as he prayed before an image of 
the Madonna, he felt a vivid intimation that he was destined to preach 
the Gospel under the northern sky. There appeared no means by 
which a Roman peasant should be turned into a missionary; nor did 
the prospect open, when this youth found himself, first a lay brother, 
then a Father, in the Congregation of the Passion. Yet though no 
external means appeared, the inward impression did not fade; on 
the contrary, it became more definite, and in process of time, instead 
of the dim north, England was engraven on his heart. And, strange 
to say, as years went on, without his seeking, for he was simply 
under obedience, our peasant found himself at length upon the very 
shore of the stormy northern sea, whence C?esar of old looked out for 
a new world to conquer; yet that he should cross the strait was still 
as little likely as before. However, it was as likely as that he should 
ever have got so near it; and he used to eye the restless, godless 
waves, and wonder with himself whether the day would ever come 
when he should be carried over them. And come it did, not however 
by any determination of his own, but by the same Providence 
which thirty years before had given him the anticipation of it. 

At the time of our narrative, Father Domenico de Matre Dei had 
become familiar with England; he had had many anxieties here, first 
from want of friends, then still more from want of men. Year past after 
year, and, whether fear oi the severity of the rule — though that was 
groundless, for it had been mitigated for England — or the claims of 
other rehgious bodies v/as the cause, his community did not increase, 
and lie was tempted to despond. But every work has its season; and 
now for some time past that difficulty had been gradually lessening; 
various zealous men, some of noble birth, others ot extensive acquire- 
ments, had entered the Congregation; and our friend Willis, who at 
this time had received the priesthood, was not the last of these 
accessions, though domiciled at a distance from London. And now 



the reader knows much more about the Passionists than did Reding 
at the time that he made his way to their monastery. 

The church-door came first, and, as it was open, he entered it. It 
apparently was filling for service. When he got inside, the person 
who immediately preceded him dipped his fmger into a vessel of 
water which stood at the entrance, and offered it to Charles. Charles, 
ignorant what it meant, and awkward from his consciousness of it, 
did nothing but slink aside, and look for some place of refuge; but 
the whole space was open, and there seemed no comer to retreat into. 
Every one, however, seemed about his own business; no one minded 
him, and so far he felt at liis ease. He stood near the door, and began 
to look about liim. A profusion of candles were lighting at the High 
Altar, wliich stood in the centre of a semicircular apse. There were 
side-altars — perhaps half-a-dozen; most of them without hghts, but, 
even here, solitary worshippers might be seen. Over one was a large 
old Crucifix with a lamp, and this had a succession of visitors. They 
came each for five minutes, saying some prayers which were attached 
in a glazed frame to the rail, and passed away. At another, which was 
in a chapel at the further end of one of the aisles, six long candles were 
burning, and over it was an image. On looking attentively, Charles 
made out at last that it was an image of Our Lady, and the Child held 
out a rosary. Here a congregation had already assembled, or rather 
was in the middle of some service, to liim unknown. It was rapid, 
alternate, and monotonous; and, as it seemed, interminable. Reding 
turned his eyes elsewhere. They fell first on one, then on another 
confessional, roimd each of which was a little crowd, kneeling, 
waiting every one liis ov^m turn for presenting himself for the sacra- 
ment — the men at the one, the women at the other. At the lower 
end of the church were about three ranges of movable benches with 
backs and kneelers; the rest of the large space was open, and filled 
with chairs. The growing object of attention at present was the High 
Altar; and each person, as he entered, took a chair, and kneeling 
down behind it, began his prayers. At length the church got very 
full: rich and poor were mixed together — artisans, wcll-drest youths, 
Irish labourers, mothers with two or three children — the only division 
being that of men from women. A set of boys and children, mixed 
with some old crones, had got possession of the altar-rail, and were 
hugging it with restless motions, as if in expectation. 

Had Reding continued standing, no one would have noticed him; 



but he saw the time was come for him to kneel, and accordingly he 
moved into a corner-seat on the bench nearest him. He had hardly- 
done so, when a procession with lights passed from the sacristy to the 
altar; something went on which he did not understand, and then 
suddenly began what, by the Miserere and Ora pro nobis, he perceived 
to be a litany; a hymn followed. Reding thought he never had been 
present at worship before, so absorbed was the attention, so intense 
was the devotion of the congregation. What particularly struck him 
was, that whereas in the Church of England the clergyman or the 
organ was every thing and the people nothing, except so far as the 
clerk is their representative, here it was just reversed. The priest 
hardly spoke, or at least audibly; but the whole congregation was as 
though one vast instrument or Panliarmonicon, moving all together, 
and, what was most remarkable, as if self-moved. They did not seem 
to require any one to prompt or direct them, though in the Litany 
the choir took the alternate parts. The words were Latin, but every 
one seemed to understand them thoroughly, and to be offering up his 
prayers to the Blessed Trinity, and the Incarnate Saviour, and the 
great Mother of God, and the glorified Saints, with hearts full in 
proportion to the energy of the sounds they uttered. There was a 
Httle boy by liim, and a poor woman, singing at the pitch of their 
voices. There was no mistaking it; Reding said to himself, "This is 
a popular religion." He looked around at the building; it was, as 
we have said, very plain, and bore the marks of being unfmished; but 
the Living Temple which was manifested in it needed not curious 
carving or rich marble to complete it, "for the glory of God did 
lighten it, and the Lamb was the light thereof." "How wonderful," 
said Charles to himself, "that people call this worship formal and 
external; it seems to possess all classes, young and old, polished and 
vulgar, men and women indiscriminately; it is the working of one 
Spirit in all, making many one." 

While he was thus thinking, a change came over the worship. A 
priest, or at least an assistant, had mounted for a moment above the 
altar, and removed a chalice or vessel which stood there; he could not 
see distinctly. A cloud of incense rose on high; the people suddenly 
all bowed low; what could it mean? the truth flashed on him, fear- 
fully yet sweetly; it was the Blessed Sacrament — it was the Lord 
Incarnate, who was on the altar, who had come to visit and to bless 
His people. It was that Great Presence, which makes a Catholic 



Church different from every other place in the world; which makes 
it, as no other place can be, holy. The Breviary offices were by tliis 
time not unknown to Reding; and as he threw liimself on the pave- 
ment, in sudden self-abasement and joy, some words of those great 
Antiphons came into his mouth, from which Wilhs had formerly 
quoted: "O Adonai, et Dux domus Israel, qui Moysi in rubo 
apparuisti; O Emmanuel, Exspectatio Gentium et Salvator earum, 
veni ad salvandum nos, Domine Dcus noster." 

The function did not last very long after this; Reding, on looking 
up, found the congregation rapidly diminisliing, and the hghts in 
course of extinction. He saw he must be quick in his motions. He 
made his way to a lay brother, who was waiting till the doors could 
be closed, and begged to be conducted to the Superior. The lay 
brother feared he might be busy at that moment, but conducted liim 
through the sacristy to a small neat room, where, being left to himself, 
he had time to collect his thoughts. At length the Superior appeared; 
he was a man past the middle age, and had a grave yet familiar 
maimer. Charles's feelings were indescribable, but all pleasurable. 
His heart beat, not with fear or anxiety, but from the thrill of delight 
with which he realised that he was beneath the shadow of a Catholic 
community, and face to face with one of its priests. His trouble went 
in a moment, and he could have laughed for joy. He could hardly 
keep his countenance, and almost feared to be taken for a fool. He 
presented the card of his railroad companion. The good Father 
smiled when he saw the name, nor did the few words which were 
written in pencil on the card diminish his satisfaction. Charles and 
he soon came to an understanding; he found himself already known 
in the community by means of Willis; and it was arranged that he 
should take up his lodging with his new friends forthwith, and remain 
there as long as it suited him. He was to prepare for confession at 
once; and it was hoped that on the following Sunday he might be 
received into Catholic communion. After that, he was, at a convenient 
interval, to present himself to the Bishop, from whom he would 
seek the sacrament of Confirmation. Not much time was necessary 
for removing his luggage from his lodgings; and in the course of an 
hour from the time of his interview with Father Superior, he was 
sitting by himself, with pen and paper and his books, and with a 
cheerful fire, in a small cell of his new home. 




A VERY few words will conduct us to the end of our history. It was 
Sunday morning, about seven o'clock, and Charles had been admitted 
into the communion of the Catholic Church about an hour since. 
He was still kneeling in the church of the Passionists before the 
T^abernaclc, in the possession of a deep peace and serenity of mind, 
which he had not thought possible on earth. It was more like the 
stillness which almost sensibly affects the ears, when a bell which had 
long been tolling stops, or when a vessel, after much tossing at sea, 
fmds itself in harbour. It was such as to throw him back in memory 
on his earliest years, as if he were really beginning life again. But 
there was more than the happiness of childhood in his heart; he 
seemed to feel a rock under his feet; it was the soliditas Cathedra; 
Petri. He went on kneeling, as if he were already in heaven, with the 
throne of God before him, and Angels around; and as if to move were 
to lose his privilege. 

At length he felt a light hand on his shoulder, and a voice said, 
"Reding, I am going; let me just say farewell to you before I 
go." He looked round; it was Willis, or rather Father Aloysius, 
in his dark Passionist habit, with the white heart sewed in at his 
left breast. Willis carried him from the church into the sacristy. 
"What a joy. Reding!" he said, when the door closed upon them; 
"what a day of joy! St. Edv/ard*s day, a doubly blessed day hence- 
forth. My Superior let me be present; but now I must go. You did 
not see me, but I was present through the whole." "Oh," said 
Charles, "what shall I say? — the Face of God! As I knelt, I seemed to 
wish to say this, and this only, with the Patriarch, 'Now let me die, 
since I have seen Thy Face.' " "You, dear Reding," said Father 
Aloysius, "have keen fresh fechngs; mine arc blunted by familiarity." 
"No, Willis," he made answer, "you have taken the better part 
betimes, while I have loitered. Too late have I known Thee, O 
Thou ancient Truth; too late have I found Thee, first and only 
Fair!" "All is well, except as sin makes it ill," said Father Aloysius; 
"if you have to lament loss of time before conversion, I have to 
lament it after. If you speak of delay, must not I oi rashness? A 
good God overrules all things. But I must away. Do you recollect 
my last words when we parted in Devonshire? I have thought of 



them often since; they were too true then. I said, 'Our ways divide.' 
They are different still, yet they are the same. Whether we shall meet 
again here below, who knows? but there will be a meeting ere long 
before the Throne of God, and under the shadow of His Blessed 
Mother and all Saints. *Deus manifcste veniet, Deus noster, et non 
silebit.' " Reding took Father Aloysius's hand, and kissed it; as he 
sank on his knees, the young priest made the sign of blessing over 
him. Then he vanished through the door of the sacristy; and the new 
convert sought his temporary cell, so happy in the Present, that he 
had no thoughts either for the Past or the Future. 






In his masterly study of what Newman called his "campaign 
in Ireland", Father McGrath states that "For the understanding 
of Newman's mind at this period, it is essential that these lectures 
should be read as they were first issued" (Newman s University, 
I95i,p. 154). They were first issued in 1852 by James Duffy of 
DubHn in the form of fortnightly pamphlets, the first five 
shortly after Newman had delivered them, the second five, 
which he did not dehver, with a Preface and Appendix, in the 
autumn of that year. Unsold copies of these publications were 
then bound and issued as the first edition in book form. Its title 
ran Discourses on the Scope and Nature of University Education. 
Addressed to the Catholics of Dublin. It is this volume which is 
here reprinted except for the Appendix (mainly consisting of 
long passages from other works quoted as illustration). When 
Newman pubhshed the book in England, seven years later, he 
gave it the title The Scope and Nature of University Education, and 
ran the first two Discourses together into one and omitted the 
fifth. The next event in the history of the work gave it the 
title by which it is now known: in 1873 the Discourses (without 
the fifth but with the first of 1859 restored to its original form 
of two) were combined with a set of Lectures and Essays on 
University Subjects (1859) and the whole called The Idea of a 
University Defined and Ilhistrated. Father McGrath notes that 
later editions show "numerous minor changes and additions". 

Newman the writer was pleased with the work in its 1852 
form: writing to Henry Wilberforce on 20 December of that 
year, he described it as one of his "two most perfect works 
artistically" (see Tristram "On Reading Newman" in John 
Henry Newman: Centenary Essays, 1945, p. 233). 

The footnotes arc Newman's. 


The view taken of a University in the Discourses which form this 
Volume, is of the following kind: — that it is a place of teachinq 
universal knowledge. This implies that its object is, on the one hand, 
intellectual, not moral; and, on the other, that it is the diffusion and 
extension of knowledge, rather than the advancement. If its object 
were scientific and philosophical discovery, I do not see why a 
University should have students; if religious training, I do not sec 
how it can be the scat of philosophy and science. 

Such is a University in its essence, and independently of its relation 
to the Church. But, practically speaking, it cannot fulfil its object 
duly, such as I have described it, without the Church's assistance; or, 
to use the theological term, the Church is necessary for its integrity. 
Not that its main characters are changed by this incorporation: it still 
has the office of intellectual education; but the Church steadies it in 
the performance of that office. 

Such are the main principles of tlie Discourses which follow; 
though it would be unreasonable for me to expect, that I have treated 
so large and important a field of thought with the fullness and pre- 
cision, necessary to secure me from incidental misconceptions of my 
meaning on the part of the reader. It is true, there is notliing novel 
or singular in the argument which I have been pursuing, but this does 
not protect me from such misconceptions; for the very circumstance 
that the views I have been delineating are not original with me, may 
lead to false notions as to my relations of opinion towards those, 
from whom I happened in the first instance to learn them, and may 
cause me to be interpreted by the objects or sentiments of schools, to 
which I should be simply opposed. 

For instance, some persons may be tempted to complain, that I 
have servilely followed the English idea of a University, to the dis- 
paragement of that knowledge, which I profess to be so strenuously 
upholding; and they may anticipate that an academical system, formed 
upon my model, will result in nothing better or higher than in the 



production of that antiquated variety of human nature and remnant 
of feudahsm, called "a gentleman".-^ Now, I have anticipated tliis 
charge in various parts of my discussion; if, however, any CathoHc 
is found to prefer it (and to Cathohcs of course this vokime is 
addressed), I would have him first of all ask liimself the previous 
question, what he conceives to be the reason contemplated by the 
Holy See, in recommending just now to the Irish Church the 
establishment of a Catholic University? Has the Supreme Pontiff 
recommended it for the sake of the Sciences, which are to be the 
matter, or rather of the Students, who are to be the subjects of its 
teaching? Has he any obligation or duty at all towards secular know- 
ledge as such? Would it become his Apostolical Ministry, and his 
descent from the Fisherman, to have a zeal for the Baconian or other 
philosophy of man for its own sake? or, on the other hand, does the 
Vicar of Christ contemplate such achievements of the intellect, as far 
as he contemplates them, solely and simply in their relation to the 
interests of Revealed Truth? Has he any more direct jurisdiction over 
the wisdom than over the civil power of this world? Is he bound by 
office or by vow, to be the preacher of the theory of gravitation, or 
a martyr for electro-magnetism? Would he be acquitting himself 
of the dispensation committed to him, if he were smitten with an 
abstract love of these matters, however true, or beautiful, or in- 
genious, or useful? What he does, he does for the sake of Religion; 
if he looks with satisfaction on strong temporal governments, which 
promise perpetuity, it is for the sake of Religion; and if he encourages 
and patronizes art and science, it is for the sake of Religion. He 
rejoices in the widest and most philosophical systems of intellectual 
education, from an intimate conviction that Truth is his real ally, as 
it is his profession; and that Knowledge and Reason are sure ministers 
to Faith. 

This being undeniable, it is plain, that, when he suggests to the 
Irish Hierarchy the establishment of a University, his first and chief 
and direct object is, not science, art, professional skill, literature, the 
discovery of knowledge, but some benefit or other, by means of 
hterature and science, to his own children; not indeed their formation 
on any narrow or fantastic type, as, for instance, that of an "Enghsh 
Gentleman" may be called, but their exercise and growth in certain 

^ Vide Hubcr's English Umversitics, London, 1843, vol. ii., part i. pp. 32T 



habits, moral or intellectual. Nothing short of this can be his aim, if, 
as becomes the Successor of the Apostles, he is to be able to say with 
St. Paul, "Non judicavi me scire aliquid inter vos, nisi Jcsum 
Christum, ct hunc crucifixum". Just as a commander wishes to have 
tall and well-formed and vigorous soldiers, not from any abstract 
devotion to the military standard of height or age, but for the pur- 
poses of war, and no one thinks it anything but natural and praise- 
worthy in him, to be contemplating, not abstract qualities, but his 
own living and breathing men; so, in like manner, when the Church 
founds a University, she is not cherishing talent, genius, or know- 
ledge, for their own sake, but for the sake of her cliildren, with a 
view to their spiritual welfare, and their religious influence and useful- 
ness, with the object of training them to fill their respective posts in 
life better, and making them more intelligent, capable, active mem- 
bers of society. 

Nor can it justly be said that in thus acting she sacrifices Science, 
and perverts a University from its proper end, under a pretence of 
fulfilling the duties of her mission, as soon as it is taken into account, 
that there are other institutions, far more suited to act as instruments 
of stimulating philosophical inquiry and extending the boundaries of 
our knowledge than a University. Such for instance, arc the literary 
and scientific "Academies", which are so celebrated in Italy and 
France, and which have frequently been connected with Universities, 
as committees, or, as it were, congregations or delegacies subordinate 
to them. Thus the present Royal Society originated in Charles the 
Second's time, in Oxford; such just now are the Ashmolean and 
Architectural Societies in the same seat of learning, which have risen 
in our own time. Such too is the British Association, a migratory 
body, which at least at times is found in the halls of the Protestant 
Universities of the United Kingdom, and the faults of which he, not 
in its exclusive devotion to science, but in graver matters w^hich it is 
irrelevant here to enter upon. Such again is the Antiquarian Socict\', 
the Royal Academy for the Fine Arts, and others wliich might be 
mentioned. Such is the sort of institution, which primarily contem- 
plates Science itself, and not students; and, in thus speaking, I am 
saying notliing of my own, being supported by no less an authority 
than Cardinal Gerdil. "Ce n' est pas", he says, "qu' il y ait aucune 
veritable opposition cntre 1' esprit des Academies et cclui dcs Univcr- 
sites; ce sont seulement des vucs diffcrentes. Les Uiiivcrsites sont 



etablies pour enseigner les sciences aux eleves qui veulent s'y former; 
les Academies se proposent de nouvelles rcchcrches a faire dans la car- 
riere des sciences. Les Universites d' Italie ont fourni des sujets qui ont 
fait honneur aux Academies; et celles-ci ont donne aux Universites des 
Professeurs, qui ont rempli les chaires avec la plus grande distinction".^ 

The nature of the case and the history of philosophy combine to 
recommend to us this "division of" intellectual "labour" betv^een 
Academies and Universities. To discover and to teach are distinct 
functions; they are also distinct gifts, and are not commonly found 
united in the same person. He too who spends his day in dispensing 
his existing knowledge to all comers, is unlikely to have either 
leisure or energy to acquire new. The common sense of mankind has 
associated the search after truth with seclusion and quiet. The 
greatest thinkers have been too intent on their subject to admit of 
interruption; they have been men of absent minds and idosyncratic 
habits, and have, more or less, shunned the lecture room and the 
public school. Pythagoras, the light of Magna Grascia, lived for a 
time in a cave: Thales, the light of Ionia, lived unmarried and in 
private, and refused the invitations of princes. Plato withdrew from 
Athens to the groves of Academus. Aristotle gave twenty years to a 
studious discipleship under him. Friar Bacon lived in his tower upon 
the Isis; Newton in an intense severity of meditation which almost 
shook his reason. The great discoveries in chemistry and electricity 
were not made in Universities. Observatories are more frequently 
out of Universities than in them, and even when within their bounds 
need have no moral connexion with them. Porson had no classes; 
Elmsley lived a good part of his life in the country, I do not say that 
there are not great examples the other way, perhaps Socrates, cer- 
tainly Lord Bacon; still I think it must be allowed on the whole, that, 
while teacliing involves external engagements, the natural home for 
experiment and speculation is retirement. 

Returning then to the consideration of the question, from which 
we may seem to have digressed, thus much we have made good, — 
that, whether or no a Cathohc University should put before it, as its 
great object, to make its students "gentlemen", still to make them 
something or other is its great object, and not simply to protect the 
interests and advance the dominion of Science. If then this may be 
taken for granted, as I think it may, the only point which remams to 
^Opcre, t. 3, p. 353- 


be settled is, whether I have formed a probable conception of the sort 
of benefit which the Holy See has intended to confer on Catholics who 
speak the English tongue, by recommending to the Irish Hierarchy the 
establishment of a University; and this I now proceed to consider. 

Here then, it is natural to ask those who are interested in the ques- 
tion, whether any better interpretation of the recommendation of the 
Holy See can be given, than that which I have suggested in this 
Volume. Certainly it docs not seem to me rash to pronounce, that, 
whereas Protestants have great advantages of education in the Schools, 
Colleges, and Universities of the United Kingdom, our ecclesiastical 
rulers have it in purpose, that Catholics should enjoy the like advan- 
tages, whatever they are, to the full. I conceive they view it as pre- 
judicial to the interests of Religion, that there should be any cultiva- 
tion of mind bestowed upon Protestants, which is not given to their 
own youth also. As they wish their schools for the poorer and middle 
classes to be at least on a par with those of Protestants, they contem- 
plate the same thing as regards that higher education which is given 
to comparatively the few. Protestant youths, who can spare the time, 
continue their studies till the age of twenty-one or twenty-two; thus 
they employ a time of life all-important and especially favourable to 
mental culture. I conceive that our Prelates are impressed with the 
fact and its consequences, that a youth who ends his education at seven- 
teen, is no match {cceteris paribus) for one who ends it at twenty-one. 

All classes indeed of the community are impressed with a fact so 
obvious as this. The consequence is, that Catholics who aspire to be 
on a level with Protestants in discipline and refinement of intellect, 
have recourse to Protestant Universities to obtain what they cannot 
find at home. Here then is an additional reason, — assuming, that is 
(as the Rescripts from Propaganda allow me to do), that Protestant 
education is inexpedient for our youth, — why those advantages, 
whatever they arc, which the Protestant sects dispense through the 
medium of Protestantism, should be accessible to Catholics in a 
Catholic form. 

What are these advantages? I repeat, they are in one word the 
culture of the intellect. Insulted, robbed, oppressed, and thrust aside, 
Catholics in these islands have not been in a condition for centuries 
to attempt the sort of education, which is necessary for the man of 
the world, the statesman, the great proprietor, or the opulent gentle- 
man. Their legitimate stations, duties, employments, have been 



taken from them, and the quahfications withal, social and intellectual, 
both for reversing the forfeiture, and for doing justice to the reversal. 
The time is come when this moral disabihty must be removed. Our 
desideratum is, not the manners and habits of gentlemen; — these can 
be, and are, acquired in various other ways, by good society, by 
foreign travel, by the innate grace and dignity of the Cathohc mind; 
— but the force, the steadiness, the comprehensiveness and the flexi- 
bility of intellect, the command over our own powers, the instinctive 
just estimate of things as they pass before us, which sometimes indeed 
is a natural gift, but commonly is not gained without much effort 
and the exercise of years. Tliis is real cultivation of mind; and I do not 
deny that the characteristic excellences of a gentleman are included 
in it. Nor need we be ashamed to admit it, since the time the Poet 
wrote, that "Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes, Emollit mores". Cer- 
tainly a liberal education does manifest itself in a courtesy, pro- 
priety, and poHsh of word and action, which is beautiful in itself, and 
acceptable to others; but it does much more. It brings the mind into 
form, for the mind is like the body. Boys outgrow their shape and 
their strength; their limbs have to be knit together, and their con- 
stitution needs tone. Mistaking animal spirits for nerve, and over- 
confident in their health, ignorant what they can bear and how to 
manage themselves, they are immoderate and extravagant; and fall 
into sharp sicknesses. This is an emblem of their minds; at first they 
have no principles laid down within them as a foundation for the 
intellect to build upon; they have no discrmiinating convictions, and 
no grasp of consequences. In consequence they talk at random, if 
they talk much, and cannot help being flippant, or what is emphati- 
cally called "young". They are merely dazzled by phenomena, instead 
of perceiving things. 

It were well, if none remained boys all their lives; but what is more 
common than the sight of grown men, talking on political or moral 
or rehgious subjects, in that off-hand, idle way which we signify by 
the word unreal? "That they simply do not know what they are talk- 
ing about", is the spontaneous silent remark of any man of sense who 
hears them. Hence such persons have no difficulty in contradicting 
themselves in successive sentences, without being conscious of it. 
Hence others, whose defect in intellectual training is more latent, have 
their most unfortunate crotchets, as they are called, or hobbies, which 
deprive them of the influence which their estimable qualities would 



Otherwise secure. Hence others can never look straight before them, 
never see the point, and have no difficulties in the most difficult sub- 
jects. Others are hopelessly obstinate and prejudiced, and return the 
next moment to their old opinions, after they have been driven from 
them, without even an attempt to explain why. Others are so intem- 
perate and intractable, that there is no greater calamity for a good 
cause than that they should get hold of it. It is very plain from the 
very particulars I have mentioned, that, in this delineation of intel- 
lectual infirmities, I am drawing from Protestantism and Protestants; 
I am referring to what meets us in every railway carriage, in every 
coflfee-room or table d'hote, in every mixed company. Nay, it is 
wonderful, that, with all their advantages, so many Protestants leave 
the University, with so little of real liberality and refinement of mind, 
in consequence of the discipline to which they have been subjected. 
Much allowance must be made here for original nature; much, for 
the detestable narrowness and (I cannot fmd a better word) the prig- 
gishness of their religion. Catholics, on the other hand, are, com- 
pared with them, almost born gentlemen. Take the same ranks in 
the two religions, and the fact is undeniable. The simplicity, 
courtesy, and intelligence, for instance, of the peasants in Ireland and 
France have often been remarked upon. Still, after all, in tliis pro- 
vince, which is not of a distinctly religious nature, Catholicism does 
little more than create instincts and impulses, wliich it requires a 
steady training to mould into definite and permanent habits. They 
may begin well, and end ill. The want of that training, in Catholics, 
so far as there is a want, is a positive loss to them; and the existence 
of it among Protestants, as far as its exists, is to them a positive 

When the intellect has once been properly trained and formed to 
have a comiected view or grasp of things, it will display itself with 
more or less effect according to its particular quahty and measure in 
the individual. In the generahty it is visible in good sense, sobriety 
of thought, reasonableness, candour, self-command, and steadiness 
of view. In some it will have developed habits of business, power of 
influencing others, and sagacity. In others it will elicit the talent of 
philosophical speculation, and lead the mind forward to eminence in 
this or that intellectual department. In all it will be a faculty of 
entering with comparative ease into any subject of thought, and of 
taking up with aptitude any science or profession. All this it will be 



and do in a measure, even when the mental formation be made after 
a model but partially true; for, as far as effectiveness goes, even false 
views of things have more influence and inspire more respect than 
none at all. Men who fancy they see what is not are more energetic, 
and make their way better, than those who see no tiling; and so the 
undoubting infidel, the fanatic, the bigot, are able to do much, wliile 
the mere hereditary Christian who has never reahzed the truths which 
he holds, is able to do nothing. But, if consistency of view can add 
so much strength even to error, what may it not be expected to 
furnish to the dignity, the energy, and the influence of Truth ! 

Someone, however, will perhaps object that I am but advocating 
that spurious philosophism, which shows itself in what, for want of 
a word, I may call "viewiness", when I speak so much of the forma- 
tion, and consequent grasp, of the intellect. It may be said that the 
theory of University Education, which I have been delineating, if 
acted upon, would teach youths nothing soundly or thoroughly, and 
would dismiss them with nothing better than brilhant general views 
about all things whatever. 

This indeed would be a most serious objection, if well founded, to 
what I have advanced in tliis Volume, and would deserve and would 
gain my immediate attention, had I any reason to think that I could 
not remove it at once, by a simple explanation of what I consider the 
true mode of educating, were this the place to do so. But these Dis- 
courses are directed simply to the consideration of the aims and 
principles of Education. Suffice it then to say here, that I hold very 
strongly that the first step in intellectual training is to impress upon 
a boy's mind the idea of science, method, order, principle, and system; 
of rule and exception, of ricliness and harmony. Tliis is commonly 
and excellently done by beginning with Grammar; nor can too great 
accuracy, or minuteness and subtlety of teaching be used towards 
him, as his faculties expand, with this simple view. Hence it is that 
critical scholarship is so important a discipline for him, when he is 
leaving school for the University. A second science is the Mathe- 
matics: this should follow Grammar, still with the same object, viz., 
to give him a conception of development and arrangement from and 
around a common centre. Hence it is that Chronology and Geo- 
graphy are so necessary for him, when he reads History, which is 
otherwise little better than a story-book. Hence too Metrical Com- 
position, when he reads poetry; in order to stimulate liis powers into 



action in every practicable way, and to prevent a passive reception of 
images and ideas which may else pass out of the mind as soon as they 
have entered it. Let him once gain this habit of method, of starting 
from fixed points, of making his ground good as he goes, of dis- 
tinguishing what he knows from what he does not, and I conceive 
he will be gradually initiated into the largest and truest philosophical 
views, and will feel nothing but impatience and disgust at the ran- 
dom theories and imposing sophistries and dashing paradoxes, which 
carry away half-formed and superficial intellects. 

Such parti-coloured ingenuities are indeed one of the chief evils of 
the day, and men of real talent are not slow to minister to them. An 
intellectual man, as the world now conceives of him, is one who is full 
of "views", on all subjects of philosophy, on all matters of the day. 
It is almost thought a disgrace not to have a view at a moment's 
notice on any question from the Personal Advent to the Cholera or 
Mesmerism. This is owing in great measure to the necessities of 
periodical literature, now so much in request. Every quarter of a 
year, every month, every day, there must be a supply, for the gratifica- 
tion of the public, of new and luminous theories on the subjects of 
religion, foreign politics, home politics, civil economy, finance, trade, 
agriculture, emigration, and the colonies. Slavery, the gold-fields, 
German philosophy, the French Empire, Welhngton, Peel, Ireland, 
must all be practised on, day after day, by what are called original 
thinkers. As the great man's guest must produce his good stories or 
songs at the evening banquet, as the platform orator exhibits his 
telling facts at mid-day, so the journalist lies under the stern obligation 
of extemporising his lucid views, leading ideas, and nutshell truths for 
the breakfast table. The very nature of periodical literature, broken 
into small wholes, and demanded punctually to an hour, involves this 
extempore philosophy. "Almost all the Ramblers", says Boswell of 
Jolinson, "were written just as they were wanted for the press; he 
sent a certain portion of the copy of an essay, and wrote the remainder 
while the former part of it was printing". Few men have the gifts of 
Johnson, who to great vigour and resource of intellect, when it was 
fairly roused, united a rare common sense and a conscientious regard 
for veracity, which preserved him from flippancy or extravagance in 
writing. Few men are Johnsons; yet how many men at tliis day are 
assailed by incessant demands on their mental powers, which only a 
productiveness like his could suitably supply! There is a demand tor 



a reckless originality of thought, and a sparkling plausibiUty of argu- 
ment, which he would have despised, even if he could have displayed; 
a demand for crude theory and unsound philosophy, rather than none 
at all. It is a sort of repetition of the "Quid novi?" of the Areopagus, 
and it must have an answer. Men must be found, who can treat, 
where it is necessary, like the Athenian Sophist, de oiimi scibili, 

"Grammaticus, Rjietor, Geometres, Pictor, Aliptes, 
Augur, Schoenobates, Medicus, Magus, omnia novit". 

I am speaking of such writers with a feeling of real sympathy for 
men who are under the rod of a cruel slavery. I have never been in 
:uch circumstances myself, nor in the temptations which they involve; 
but most men who have had to do with composition, must know the 
distress wliich at times it occasions them to have to write — a distress 
sometimes so keen and so specific, that it resembles notliing else than 
bodily pain. That pain is the token of the wear and tear of mind; and, 
if works done comparatively at leisure involve such mental fatigue 
and exhaustion, what must be the toil of those whose intellects are to 
be flaunted daily before the pubHc in full dress, and that dress ever 
new and varied, and spun, like the silkworm's, out of themselves ! 
Still, whatever true sympathy we may feel for the ministers of this 
dearly purchased luxury, and whatever sense we may have of the 
great intellectual power which the hterature in question displays, we 
cannot honestly close our eyes to the evil. 

One other remark suggests itself, wliich is the last I shall think it 
necessary to make. The authority, which in former times was lodged 
in Universities, now resides in very great measure in that literary 
world, as it is called, to which I have been alluding. This is not satis- 
factory, if, as no one can deny, its teaching be so off-hand, so ambitious, 
so changeable. It increases the seriousness of the mischief that so very 
large a portion of its writers arc anonymous, for irresponsible power 
never can be anytliing but a great evil; and, moreover, that even 
when they are known, they can give no better guarantee of the 
philosophical truth of their principles, than their popularity at the 
moment, and their happy conformity in ethical character to the age 
which admires them. Protestants, however, may do as they like: it is 
their own concern; we are not called upon to thrust upon them 
remonstrances which they would stigmatize as narrow-minded. But 
at least it concerns us, that our own literary tribunals and oracles of 



moral duty should bear a graver character. At least it is a matter of 
deep solicitude to Catholic Prelates, that their people should be taught 
a wisdom, safe from the excesses and vagaries of individuals, embodied 
in institutions, which have stood the trial and received the sanction of 
ages, and administered by men who have no need to be anonymous, 
as being supported by their consistency with their predecessors and 
with each other. 


Discourses on the Scope and Nature 
of University Education 



In addressing myself to the consideration of a question which has 
excited so much interest, and ehcited so much discussion at the 
present day, as that of University Education, I feel some explanation 
is due from me for supposing, after such high ability and wide experi- 
ence have been brought to bear upon it in both countries, that any 
field remains for the additional labours either of a disputant or of an 
inquirer. If, nevertheless, I still venture to ask permission to continue 
the discussion, already so protracted, it is because the subject of 
Liberal Education, and of the principles on which it must be con- 
ducted, has ever had a hold upon my mind; and because I have lived 
the greater part of my life in a place which has all that time been 
occupied in a series of controversies among its own people and with 
strangers, and of measures, experimental or defmitive, bearing upon 
it. About fift)^ years since, the Protestant University, of wliich I was 
so long a member, after a century of inactivity, at length was roused, 
at a time when (as I may say) it was giving no education at all to the 
youth committed to its keeping, to a sense of the responsibilities 
which its profession and its station involved; and it presents to us the 
singular example of an heterogeneous and an independent body of 
men, setting about a work of self-reformation, not from any pressure 
of public opinion, but because it was fitting and right to undertake it. 
Its initial efforts, begun and carried on amid many obstacles, were met 
from without, as often happens in such cases, by ungenerous and 
jealous criticisms, which were at that very moment beginning to be 
unjust. Controversy did but bring out more clearly to its own 



apprehension, the views on which its reformation was proceeding, 
and throw them into a philosophical form. The course of beneficial 
change made progress, and what was at first but the result of individual 
energy and an act of the academical corporation, gradually became 
popular, and was taken up and carried out by the separate collegiate 
bodies, of which the University is composed. This was the first stage 
of the controversy. Years passed away, and then political adversaries 
arose, and a political contest was waged; but still, as that contest was 
conducted in great measure through the medium, not of political 
acts, but of treatises and pamphlets, it happened as before that the 
threatened dangers, in the course of their repulse, did but afford fuller 
development and more exact delineation to the principles of which 
the University was the representative. 

Living then so long as a witness, though hardly as an actor, in these 
scenes of intellectual conflict, I am able, Gentlemen, to bear witness to 
views of University Education, without authority indeed in them- 
selves, but not without value to a Catholic, and less familiar to him, 
as I conceive, than they deserve to be. And, while an argument 
originating in them may be serviceable at this season to that great 
cause in which we are just now so especially interested, to me person- 
ally it will afford satisfaction of a pecuhar kind; for, though it has 
been my lot for many years to take a prominent, sometimes a pre- 
sumptuous, part in theological discussions, yet the natural turn of my 
mind carries me off to trains of thought like those which I am now 
about to open, which, important though they be for Catholic objects, 
and admitting of a Catholic treatment, are sheltered from the 
extreme dehcacy and peril which attach to disputations directly bear- 
ing on the subject matter of Divine Revelation. 

What must be the general character of those views of University 
Education to which I have alluded, and of which I shall avail myself, 
can hardly be doubtful. Gentlemen, considering the circumstances 
under which I am addressing you. I should not propose to avail 
myself of a philosophy which I myself had gained from an heretical 
seat of learning, unless I felt that that philosophy was Catholic in its 
ultimate source, and befitting the mouth of one who is taking part in 
a great Catholic work; nor, indeed, should I refer at all to the views 
of men who, however distinguished in this world, were not and are 
not blessed with the light of true doctrine, except for one or two 
special reasons, which will form, I trust, my sufficient justification in 



SO doing. One reason is this: It would concern me, Gentlemen, were 
I supposed to have got up my opinions for the occasion. Tliis, indeed, 
w^ould have been no reflection on me personally, supposing I were 
persuaded of their truth, when at length addressing myself to the 
inquiry; but it would have destroyed, of course, the force of my 
testimony, and deprived such arguments, as I might adduce, of that 
moral persuasiveness which attends on tried and sustained conviction. 
It would have made me seem the advocate, rather than the cordial and 
deliberate maintainer and witness of the doctrines which I was to 
support; and while it undoubtedly exemphfied the faith I reposed in 
the practical judgment of the Church, and the intimate concurrence 
of my own reason with the course she had authoritatively sanctioned, 
and the devotion with which I could promptly put myself at her dis- 
posal, it would have cast suspicion on the validity of reasonings and 
conclusions which rested on no independent inquiry, and appealed 
to no past experience. In that case it might have been plausibly 
objected by opponents that I was the serviceable expedient of an 
emergency, and never could be more than ingenious and adroit in the 
management of an argument which was not my own, and which I 
was sure to forget again as readily as I had mastered it. But tliis is not 
so. The views to which I have referred have grown into my whole 
system of thought, and are, as it were, part of myself. Many changes 
has my mind gone through ; here it has known no variation or 
vacillation of opinion, and though this by itself is no proof of truth, 
it puts a seal upon conviction, and is a justification of earnestness and 
zeal. The principles, which I can now set forth under the sanction of 
the Catholic Church, were my profession at that early period of my 
life, when religion was to me more a matter of feeling and experience 
than of faith. They did but take greater hold upon me as I was intro- 
duced to the records of Christian Antiquity, and approached in senti- 
ment and desire to Catholicism; and my sense of their truth has been 
increased with the experience of every year since I have been brought 
within its pale. 

And here I am brought to a second and more important reason for 
introducing what I have to say on the subject of Liberal Education 
with this reference to my personal testimony concerning it; and it is 
as follows: In proposing to treat of so grave a matter, I have felt 
vividly that some apology was due from me for introducing the 
lucubrations of Protestants into what many men might consider 



almost a question of dogma, and I have said to myself about myself: 
"You think it, then, worth while to come all this way, in order, from 
your past experience, to recommend principles which had better be 
left to the decision of the theological schools!" The force of this 
objection you will see more clearly by considering the answer I pro- 
ceed to give to it. 

Let it be observed, then, that the principles I would maintain on the 
subject of Liberal Education, although those as I believe of the 
Catholic Church, are such as may be gained by the mere experience 
of hfe. They do not simply come of theology — they imply no super- 
natural discernment — they have no special connection with Revela- 
tion; they will be found to be almost self-evident when stated, and to 
arise out of the nature of the case; they are dictated by that human 
prudence and wisdom which is attainable where grace is quite away, 
and recognized by simple common sense, even where self-interest is 
not present to sharpen it; and, therefore, though true, and just, and 
good in themselves, though sanctioned and used by Catholicism, they 
argue nothing whatever for the sanctity or faith of those who main- 
tain them. They may be held by Protestants as well as by Catholics; 
they may, accidentally, in certain times and places, be taught by Pro- 
testants to Catholics, without any derogation from the claim wliich 
Catholics make to special spiritual illumination. This being the case, 
I may without offence, on the present occasion, when speaking to 
Catholics, appeal to the experience of Protestants; I may trace up my 
own distinct convictions on the subject to a time when apparently I 
was not even approximating to Catholicism; I may deal with the 
question, as I really believe it to be, as one of philosophy, practical 
wisdom, good sense, not of theology; and, such as I am, I may, not- 
withstanding, presume to treat of it in the presence of those who, in 
every rehgious sense, are my fathers and my teachers. 

Nay, not only may the true philosophy of Education be held by 
Protestants, ane! at a given time, or in a given place, be taught by 
them to Catholics, but further than this, there is nothing strange in the 
idea, that here or there, at this time or that, it should be understood 
better, and held more firmly by Protestants than by ourselves. The 
very circumstance that it is founded on truths in the natural order, 
accounts for the possibility of its being sometimes or somewhere 
understood outside the Church, more accurately than within her fold. 
Where the sun shines bright, in the warm climate of die south, the 

N— AA 369 


natives of the place know little of safeguards against cold and wet. 
They have, indeed, bleak and piercing blasts; they have chill and 
pouring rain; but only now and then, for a day or a week; they bear 
the inconvenience as they best may, but they have not made it an 
art to repel it; it is not worth their while; the science of calefaction and 
ventilation is reserved for the north. It is in this way that Cathohcs 
stand relatively to Protestants in the science of Education; Protestants 
are obliged to depend on human means solely, and they are, therefore, 
led to make the most of them; it is their sole resource to use what they 
have; "Knowledge is" their "power" and notliing else; they are the 
anxious cultivators of a rugged soil. It is otherwise with us; futws 
ceciderunt mihi in pra^claris. We have a goodly inheritance. The 
Almighty Father takes care of us; He has promised to do so; His word 
cannot fail, and we have continual experience of its fulfilment. This 
is apt to make us, I will not say, rely too much on prayer, on the 
Divine Word and Blessing, for we cannot pray too much, or expect 
too much from our great Lord; but we sometimes forget that we 
shall please Him best, and get most from Him, when we use what we 
have in nature to the utmost, at the same time that we look out for 
what is beyond nature in the confidence of faith and hope. However, 
we are sometimes tempted to let things take their course, as if they 
would in one way or another turn up right at last for certain; and so 
we go on, getting into difficulties and getting out of them, succeeding 
certainly on the whole, but with failure in detail which might be 
avoided, and with much of imperfection or inferiority in our appoint- 
ments and plans, and much disappointment, discouragement, and 
colhsion of opinion in consequence. We leave God to fight our 
battles, and so He does; but He corrects us while He prospers us. We 
cultivate the imiocence of the dove more than the wisdom of the 
serpent; and we exemplify our Lord's word and incur His rebuke, 
when He declared that "the children of this world were in their 
generation wiser than the cliildren of light". 

It is far from impossible, then, at first sight, that on the subject 
before us, Protestants may have discerned the true line of action, and 
estimated its importance aright. It is possible that they have investi- 
gated and ascertained the main principles, the necessary conditions of 
education, better than some among ourselves. It is possible at first 
sight, and it is probable in the particular case, when we consider, on 
the one hand, the various and opposite positions, which they enjoy 



relatively to each other; yet, on the other, the uniformity of the con- 
clusions to which they arrive. The Protestant communions, I need 
hardly say, are respectively at a greater and a less distance from the 
Catholic Church, with more or with less of Catholic doctrine and of 
Catholic principle in them. Supposing, then, it should turn out, on a 
survey of their opinions and their policy, that in proportion as they 
approach, in the genius of their religion, to Catholicism, so do they 
become clear in their enunciation of a certain principle in education, 
that very circumstance would be an argument, as far as it went, for 
concluding that in Catholicism itself the recognition of that principle 
would, in its seats of education, be distinct and absolute. Now, I 
conceive that this remark applies in the controversy to which I am 
addressing myself. I must anticipate the course of future remarks 
so far as to say what you have doubtless, Gentlemen, yourselves 
anticipated before I say it, that the main principle on which I shall 
have to proceed is this — that Education must not be disjoined from 
Religion, or that Mixed Schools, as they are called, in which teachers 
and scholars are of different religious creeds, none of which, of course, 
enter into the matter of instruction, are constructed on a false idea. 
Here, then, I conceive I am right in saying that every sect of Protes- 
tants, which has retamed the idea of religious truth and the necessity of 
faith, which has any dogma to profess and any dogma to lose, makes 
that dogma the basis of its Education, secular as well as religious, and 
is jealous of those attempts to establish schools of a purely secular 
character, which the inconvenience of religious differences urges upon 
politicians of the day. This circumstance is of so striking a nature as 
in itself to justify me, as I consider, in my proposed appeal in this 
controversy to arguments and testimony short of Catholic. 

Now, Gentlemen, let me be clearly understood here. I know quite 
well that there are multitudes of Protestants who are advocates for 
Mixed Education to the fullest extent, even so far as to desire the 
introduction of Catholics themselves into their colleges and schools; 
but then, first, they are those for the most part who have no creed or 
dogma whatever to defend, to sacrifice, to surrender, to compromise, 
to hold back, or to "mix", when they call out for Mixed Education. 
There are many Protestants of benevolent tempers and businesslike 
minds, who think that all who are called Christians do in fict agree 
together in essentials, though they will not allow it; and who, in con- 
sequence, call on all parties in educating their youth for the world to 



eliminate differences, which are certainly prejudicial, as soon as tliey 

are proved to be immaterial. It is not surprising that clear-sighted 
persons should fight against the maintenance and imposition of private 
judgment in matters of public concern. It is not surprising that states- 
men, v^ith a thousand conflicting claims and interests to satisfy, should 
fondly aim at a forfeited privilege of Catholic times, v^hen they would 
have had at least one distraction the less in the simphcity of National 
Education. And next, I can conceive the most consistent men, and 
the most zealously attached to their own system of doctrine, neverthe- 
less consenting to schemes of Education from which Rehgion is 
altogether or almost excluded, from the stress of necessity, or the 
recommendations of expedience. Necessity has no law, and expedi- 
ence is often one form of necessity. It is no principle with sensible 
men, of whatever cast of opinion, to do always what is abstractedly 
best. Where no direct duty forbids, we may be obhged to do, as 
being best under circumstances, what we murmur and rise against, 
while we do it. We see that to attempt more is to effect less; that we 
must accept so much, or gain nothing; and so perforce we reconcile 
ourselves to what we would have far otherwise, if we could. Thus a 
system of Mixed Education may, in a particular place or time, be the 
least of evils; it may be of long standing; it may be dangerous to 
meddle with; it may be professedly a temporary arrangement; it may 
be in an improving state; its disadvantages may be neutrahsed by the 
persons by whom, or the provisions under which, it is administered. 
Protestants then, in matter of fact, are found to be both advocates 
and promoters of Mixed Education; but this, as I tliink will appear on 
inquiry, only under the conditions I have set down, first, where they 
have no special attachment to the dogmas which are compromised in 
the comprehension; and next, when they fmd it impossible, much as 
they may desire it, to carry out their attachment to them in practice, 
without prejudicial consequences greater than those which that com- 
prehension involves. Men who profess a rehgion, if left to themselves, 
make religious and secular Education one. Where, for instance, shall 
we find greater diversity of opinion, greater acrimony of mutual 
opposition, than between the two parties. High Church and Low, 
which mainly constitute the Established Religion of England and 
Ireland? Yet those parties, differing, as they do, from each other in 
other points, are equally opposed to the efforts of politicians to fuse 
their respective systems of Education with those cither of Catholics 



or of sectaries; and it is only the strong expedience of concord and the 
will of the State which reconcile them to the necessity of a fusion with 
each other. Again, we all know into what various persuasions the 
English constituency is divided — more, indeed, than it is easy to 
enumerate; yet, since the great majority of that constituency, amid 
its differences, and in its several professions, distinctly dogmatises, 
whether it be Anglican, Wesleyan, Calvinistic, or so-called Evangelical 
(as is distinctly shown, if in no other way, by its violence against 
Catholics), the consequence is, that, in spite of serious political 
obstacles and of the reluctance of statesmen, it has up to this time been 
resolute and successful in preventing the national separation of 
secular and religious Education. This concurrence, then, in various 
instances, supposing it to exist, as I believe it docs, of a dogmatic faith 
on the one hand, and an abhorrence of Mixed Education on the 
other, is a phenomenon which, though happening among Protes- 
tants, demands the attention of Catholics, over and above the argu- 
mentative basis, on which, in the instance of each particular sect, this 
abhorrence would be found to rest. 

While then, I conceive that certain Protestant bodies may, under 
circumstances, decide, more successfully than Cathohcs of a certain 
locality or period, a point of religious pliilosophy or policy, and may 
so far give us a lesson in perspicacity or prudence, without any pre- 
judice to our claims to the exclusive possession of Revealed Truth, I 
say, they are in matter of fact likely to have done so in a case like the 
present, in which, amid all the variety of persuasions into which 
Protestantism necessarily splits, they agree together in a certain 
practical conclusion, wliich each of them in turn sees to be necessary 
for its own particular maintenance. Nor is there surely an}'thing 
startling or novel in such an admission. The Church has ever appealed 
and deferred to testimonies and authorities external to herself, in 
those matters in which she thought they had means of forming a 
judgment: and that on the principle Cuiquc in sua arte crcdcudtim. She 
has ever used unbelievers and pagans in evidence of her truth, as far 
as their testimony went. She avails herself of heretical scholars, 
critics, and antiquarians. She has worded her theological teaching in 
the phraseology of Aristotle; Aquila, Symmachus, Theodotion, 
Origcn, Eusebius, and Apollinaris, all more or less heterodox, have 
supplied materials for primitive exegetics. St. Cyprian called Tertul- 
lian his master; Bossuet, in modern times, complimented the labours 



of the Anglican Bull; the Benedictine editors of the Fathers are 
famihar with the labours of Fell, Ussher, Pearson, and Beveridge. 
Pope Benedict XIV. cites according to the occasion the works 
of Protestants without reserve, and the late French collection of 
Christian Apologists contains the writings of Locke, Burnet, Tillot- 
son, and Paley. If then, I come forward in any degree as borrowing 
the views of certain Protestant schools on the point which is to be 
discussed, I do so, not. Gentlemen, as supposing that even in philo- 
sophy the Catholic Church herself, as represented by her theologians 
or her schools, has anything to learn from men or bodies of men 
external to her pale; but as feeling, first, that she has ever, in the 
plenitude of her divine illumination, made use of whatever truth or 
wisdom she has found in their teaching or their measures; and next, 
that in particular times or places some of her children are likely to 
profit from external suggestions or lessons which are in no sense 
necessary for herself. 

And in thus speaking of human philosophy, I have intimated the 
mode in wliich I propose to handle my subject altogether. Observe, 
then. Gentlemen, I have no intention of bringing into the argument 
the authority of the Church at all; but I shall consider the question 
simply on the grounds of human reason and human wisdom. And 
from this it follows that, viewing it as a matter of argument, judg- 
ment, propriety, and expedience, I am not called upon to deny that in 
particular cases a course has been before now advisable for Catholics 
in regard to the education of their youth, and has been, in fact, 
adopted, which was not abstractedly the best, and is no pattern and 
precedent for others. Thus in the early ages the Church sanctioned 
her children in frequenting the heathen schools for the acquisition of 
secular accomplishments, where, as no one can doubt, evils existed, 
at least as great as can attend on Mixed Education now. The gravest 
Fathers recommended for Christian youth the use of Pagan masters; 
the most saintly Bishops and most authoritative Doctors had been 
sent in their adolescence by Christian parents to Pagan lecture halls.^ 
And, not to take other instances, at this very time, and in this very 
country, as regards at least the poorer classes of the community, whose 
secular acquirements ever must be limited, it has approved itself not 
only to Protestant state Ecclesiastics, who cannot be supposed to be 
very sensitive about doctrinal truth, but, as a wise condescension, even 
^ Vide, M. L'Abbc Lalanne's recent work. 



to many of our most venerated Bishops, to suffer, under the circum- 
stances, a system of Mixed Education in the schools called National. 
On this part of the question, however, I have not to enter; for I 
confme myself to the subject of University Education. But even here 
it would ill have become me to pretend, simply on my own judg- 
ment, to decide on a point so emphatically practical, as regards a state 
of society, about which I have much to learn, on any abstract prin- 
ciples, however true and important. It would have been pre- 
sumptuous in me so to have acted, nor am I so acting. It is my hap- 
piness in a matter of Christian duty, about which the most saintly and 
the most able may differ, to be guided simply by the decision and 
recommendation of the Holy See, the judge and finisher of all contro- 
versies. That decision indeed, I repeat, shall not enter into my argu- 
ment; but it is my own reason for arguing. I am trusting my own 
judgment on the subject, because I find it is the judgment of him who 
has upon his shoulder the government and the solicitude of all the 
Churches. I appear before you, Gentlemen, not prior to the decision 
of Rome on the question of which I am to treat, but after it. My sole 
aspiration — and I cannot have a higher under the heavens — is to be 
the servant of the Vicar of Christ. He has sanctioned at tliis time 
a particular measure for his children who speak the English tongue, 
and the distinguished persons by whom it is to be carried out have 
honoured me with a share in their work. I take things as I fmd them; 
I know nothing of the past; I find myself here; I set myself to the 
duties I find here; I set myself to further, by every means in my power, 
doctrines and views, true in themselves, recognised by all Catholics 
as such, familiar to my own mind; and to do this quite apart from the 
consideration of questions which have been determined without me 
and before me. I am here the advocate and the minister of a certain 
great principle; yet not merely advocate and minister, else had I not 
been here at all. It has been my previous keen sense and hearty 
reception of that principle, that has been at once the cause, as I must 
suppose, of my selection, and the ground of my acquiescence. I am 
told on authority that a principle is necessary, which I have ever felt 
to be true. As the royal matron in sacred history consigned the child 
she had made her own to the charge of its natural mother; so truths 
and duties, which come of unaided reason, not of grace, which w^re 
already intimately mine by the workings of my own mind, and tlie 
philosophy of human schools, are now committed to my care, to 



nurse and to cherish, by her and for her who, acting on the preroga- 
tive of her divinely inspired discernment, has in this instance honoured 
with a royal adoption the suggestions of reason. 

Happy mother, who received her offspring back by giving him up, 
and gained, at another's word, what her own most jealous artifices 
had failed to secure at home ! Gentlemen, I have not yet ended the 
explanations with which I must introduce myself to your notice. If I 
have been expressing a satisfaction that opinions, early imbibed and 
long cherished in my own mind, now come to me with the Church's 
seal upon them, do not imagine that I am indulging a subtle kind of 
private judgment, especially unbecoming in a Catholic. It would, I 
think, be unjust to me, were any one to gather, from what I have been 
saying, that I had so estabhshed myself in my own ideas and in my old 
notions, as a centre of thought, that, instead of coming to the Church 
to be taught, I was but availing myself of such opportunities as she 
gave me, to force principles on your attention wliich I had adopted 
without her. It would, indeed, be a most unworthy frame of mind, 
to view her sanction, however it could be got, as a sort of leave or 
permit, whereby the intellect obtains on outlet, which it is ever 
coveting, to range freely once in a way, and to enjoy itself in a v/el- 
come, because a rare hohday. Not so; human wisdom, at the very 
best, even in matters of rehgious policy, is principally but a homage, 
certainly no essential service to Divine Truth. Nor is the Church 
some stem mistress, practised only in refusal and prohibition, to be 
obeyed grudgingly and dexterously overreached; but a kind and 
watchful teacher and guide, encouraging us forward in the path of 
truth amid the perils which beset it. Deeply do I feel, ever will I 
protest, for I can appeal to the ample testimony of history to bear me 
out, that, in questions of right and wrong there is nothing really 
strong in the whole world, nothing decisive and operative, but the 
voice of him, to whom have been committed the keys of the kingdom 
and the oversight of Christ's flock. That voice is now, as ever it has 
been, a real authority, infallible when it teaches, prosperous when it 
commands, ever taking the lead wisely and distinctly in its own pro- 
vince, adding certainty to what is probable, and persuasion to what is 
certain. Before it speaks, the most saintly may mistake; and after it 
has spoken, the most gifted must obey. 

I have said this in explanation; but it has an application if you will 
let me so say, far beyond myself Perhaps wc have all need to be 



reminded, in one way or another, as regards our habitual view of 
things, if not our formal convictions, of the greatness of authority and 
the intensity of power, which accompany the decisions of the Holy 
See. I can fancy, Gentlemen, among those who hear me there may 
be those who would be willing to acquit the principles of Education 
which I am to advocate of all fault whatever, except that of being im- 
practicable. I can fancy them to grant to me, that those principles are 
most correct and most obvious, simply irresistible on paper, yet, after 
all, nothing more than the dreams of men who live out of the world, 
and who do not see the difficulty of keeping Catholicism anyhow 
afloat on the bosom of this wonderful nineteenth century. Proved, 
indeed, those principles are to demonstration, but they will not work. 
Nay, it was my own admission just now, that, in a particular instance, 
it might easily happen that what is only second best is best practically, 
because what is actually best is out of the question. This, I hear you 
say to yourselves, is the state of things at present. You recount in 
detail the numberless impediments, great and small, threatening and 
vexatious, which at every step embarrass the attempt to carry out 
ever so poorly a principle in itself so true and ecclesiastical. You 
appeal in your defence to wise and sagacious intellects, who are far 
from enemies, if not to Catholicism, at least to the Irish Hierarchy, 
and you simply despair, or rather you absolutely disbehevc, that 
Education can possibly be conducted, here and now, on a theological 
principle, or that youths of different rehgions can, in matter of fact, be 
educated apart from each other. The more you think over the state 
of politics, the position of parties, the feelings of classes, and the 
experience of the past, the more chimerical does it seem to you to aim 
at anytliing beyond a University of Mixed Instruction. Nay, even if 
the attempt could accidentally succeed, would not the mischief 
exceed the benefits of it? How great the sacrifice, in how many wa)s, 
by which it would be preceded and followed ! — how many wounds, 
open and secret, would it inflict upon the body politic ! And, if it 
fails, wliich is to be expected, then a double mischief will ensue from 
its recognition of evils which it has been unable to remedy. These 
are your deep misgivings; and, in proportion to the force with which 
they come to you, is the concern and anxiety which the)' occasion 
you, that there should be those whom you love, whom you revere, 
who from one cause or other refuse to enter into them. 

This, I repeat, is what some good Catholics will say to me, and 



more than this. They will express themselves better than I can speak 
for them — with more nature and point, with more force of argument 
and fulness of detail; and I will frankly and at once acknowledge, 
Gentlemen, that I do not mean here to give a direct answer to their 
objections. I do not say an answer cannot be given; on the contrary, 
I may have a confident expectation that, in proportion as those 
objections are looked in the face, they will fade away. But, however 
this may be, it would not become me to argue the matter with those 
who understand the circumstances of the problem so much better than 
myself. What do I know of the state of things in Ireland that I should 
presume to put ideas of mine, which could not be right except by 
accident, by the side of theirs, who speak in the country of their birth 
and their home? No, Gentlemen, you are natural judges of the 
difficulties which beset us, and they are doubtless greater than I can 
even fancy or forebode. Let me, for the sake of argument, admit all 
you say against our enterprise, and a great deal more. Your proof of 
its intrinsic impossibility shall be to me as demonstrative as my own 
of its theological correctness. Why then should I be so rash and per- 
verse as to involve myself in trouble not properly mine? Why go out 
of my own place? How is it that I do not know when I am well off? 
Why so headstrong and reckless as to lay up for myself miscarriage 
and disappointment, as though I had not enough of my own? 

Considerations such as these might have been simply decisive in 
time past for the boldest and most able among us; now, however, I 
have one resting point, just one, one plea which serves me in the stead 
of all direct argument whatever, which hardens me against censure, 
which encourages me against fear, and to which I shall ever come 
round, when I hear the question of the practicable and the expedient 
brought into discussion. After all, Peter has spoken. Peter is no 
recluse, no abstracted student, no dreamer about the past, no doter 
upon the dead and gone, no projector of the visionary. Peter for 
eighteen hundred years has lived in the world; he has seen all fortunes, 
he has encountered all adversaries, he has shaped himself for all 
emergencies. If there ever was a power on earth who had an eye for 
the times, who has confined himself to the practicable, and has been 
happy in his anticipations, whose words have been deeds, and whose 
commands prophecies, such is he in the history of ages who sits on 
from generation to generation in the Chair of the Apostles as the 
Vicar of Christ and Doctor of His Church. 



Notions, then, taught me long ago by others, long cherished in my 
own mind, these are not my confidence. Their truth does not make 
them feasible, nor their reasonableness persuasive. Rather, I would 
meet the objector by an argument of his own sort. If you tell me this 
work will fail, I will make answer, the worker is apt to succeed, and 
I trust in my knowledge of the past more than in your prediction of 
the future. It was said by an old philosopher, who declined to reply 
to an emperor's arguments, "It is not saf: controverting with the 
master of twenty legions". What Augustus had in the material order, 
that, and much more, has Peter in the spiritual. Peter has spoken by 
Pius, and when was Peter ever unequal to the occasion? When has 
he not risen with the crisis? What dangers have ever daunted him? 
What sopliistry foiled him? What uncertainties misled him? When 
did ever any power go to war with Peter, material or moral, civilized 
or savage, and get the better? When did the whole world ever band 
together against him solitary, and not find him too many for them? 

These are not the words of rhetoric. Gentlemen, but of history. All 
who take part with Peter are on the winning side. The Apostle says 
not in order to unsay, for he has inherited that word which is with 
power. Froin the first he has looked through the wide world, of 
which he has the burden, and according to the need of the day, and 
the inspirations of his Lord, he has set himself now to one thing, now 
to another, but to all in season, and to nothing in vain. He came first 
upon an age of refinement and luxury like our own, and in spite of the 
persecutor fertile in the resources of his cruelty, he soon gathered, out 
of all classes of society, the slave, the soldier, the high-born lady, and 
the sophist, to form a people for his Master's honour. The savage 
hordes came down in torrents from the north, hideous even to look 
upon; and Peter went out with holy water and with bcnison, and by 
his very eye he sobered them and backed them in full career. They 
turned aside, and flooded the whole earth, but only to be more surely 
civilized by him, and to be made ten times more his children even 
than the older populations they had overwhelmed. Lawless kings 
arose, sagacious as the Roman, passionate as the Hun, yet in him they 
found their match, and were shattered, and he lived on. The gates ot 
the earth were opened to the east and west, and men poured out to 
take possession; and he and his went with them, swept along by zeal 
and charity as far as they by enterprise, covetousness, or ambition. 
Has he failed in his successes up to this hour? Did he, in our hithers' 



day, fail in liis struggle with Joseph of Germany and his confederates, 
with Napoleon, a greater name, and his dependent kings, that, 
though in another kind of fight, he should fail in ours? What grey 
hairs are on the head of Judah, whose youth is renewed like the eagle's, 
whose feet are like the feet of harts, and underneath the everlasting 

In the first centuries of the Church all this was a mere point of faith, 
but every age as it has come has stayed up faith by sight; and shame 
on us if, with the accumulated witness of eighteen centuries, our eyes 
are too gross to see what the Saints have ever anticipated. Education, 
Gentlemen, involved as it is in the very idea of a religion such as ours, 
cannot be a strange work at any time in the hands of the Vicar of 
Christ. The heathen forms of rehgion thought it enough to amuse 
and quiet the populace with spectacles, and, on the other hand, to 
bestow a dignity and divine sanction upon the civil ruler; but 
Catholicism addresses itself directly to the heart and conscience of the 
individual. The Religion wliich numbers Baptism and Penance 
among its sacraments, cannot be neglectful of the soul's training; the 
Creed which opens and resolves into so majestic and so living a 
theology, carmot but subserve the cultivation of the intellect; the 
Revelation which tells us of truths otherwise utterly hid from us, 
cannot be justly called the enemy of knowledge; the Worship, which 
is so awful and so thrilling, cannot but feed the aspirations of genius, 
and move the affections from their depths. The Institution, wliich has 
flourished in centuries the most famed for mental activity and cultiva- 
tion, which has come into collision, to say no more, with the schools 
of Antioch and Alexandria, Athens and Edessa, Saracenic Seville, and 
Protestant Berlin, cannot be wanting in experience what to do now, 
and when to do it. He whom the Almighty left behind to be His 
representative on earth, has ever been jealous, as beseemed him, as of 
God's graces, so also of His gifts. He has been as tender of the welfare 
and interests of human science as he is loyal to the divine truth which 
is his peculiar charge. He has ever been the foster-father of secular 
knowledge, and has rejoiced in its growth, while he has pruned away 
its self-destructive luxuriance. 

Least of all can the Cathohcs of two islands, which have been here- 
tofore so singularly united in the cultivation and diffusion of Know- 
ledge, under the auspices of the Apostolic See, we surely. Gentlemen, 
are not the persons to distrust its wisdom and its fortune when it 



sends us on a similar mission now. I cannot forget, Gentlemen, that 
at a time when Celt and Saxon were alike savage, it was the See of 
Peter that gave both of them first faith, and then civihzation; and 
then, again, bound them together in one by the seal of that joint 
commission which it gave them to convert and illuminate in turn the 
pagan Continent. I cannot forget how it was from Rome that the 
glorious St. Patrick was sent to Ireland, and did a work so great, that 
he may be said to have had no successor in it; the sanctity, and learn- 
ing, and zeal, and charity which followed being but the result of the 
one impulse which he gave. I cannot forget how, in no long time, 
under the fostering breath of the Vicar of Christ, a country of 
heathen superstitions became the very wonder and asylum of all 
people; — the wonder by reason of its knowledge, sacred and profane; 
the asylum for religion, literature, and science, chased away from the 
Continent by barbaric invaders. I recollect its hospitality freely 
accorded to the pilgrim; its volumes munificently presented to the 
foreign student; and the prayers, and blessings, and holy rites, and 
solemn chants, which sanctified the while both giver and receiver. 
Nor can I forget how my own England had meanwliile become the 
soHcitude of the same unwearied Eye; how Augustine was sent to us 
by Gregory; how he fainted in the way in terror at our barbarian 
name, and, but for the Pope, had returned as from an impossible 
expedition; how he was forced on "in weakness, and in fear, and in 
much trembling", until he had achieved the conquest of all England 
to Christ. Nor, how it came to pass that, when Augustine died and 
his work slackened, another Pope, unwearied still, sent three great 
Saints from Rome to educate and refine the people he had converted. 
Three holy men set out for England together, of different nations; 
Theodore, an Asiatic Greek, from Tarsus; Adrian, an African; Ben- 
nett alone a Saxon, for Peter knows no distinction of races in his 
ecumenical work; they came with theology and science in their train; 
with relics, and with pictures, and with manuscripts of the Holy 
Fathers and the Greek classics; and Theodore and Adrian founded 
schools, secular and rehgious, all over England, while Bennett 
brought to the north the large library he had collected in foreign 
parts, and, with plans and ornamental work from France, erected a 
church of stone, under the invocation of St. Peter, after the Roman 
fashion, "wliich", says the historian,^ "he most affected". I call to 

^ Cressy. 


mind how St. Wilfrid, St. John of Beverly, St. Bede, and other saintly 
men, carried on the good work in the following generations, and how 
from that time forth the two islands, England and Ireland, in a dark 
and dreary age, were the two lights of Christendom; and nothing 
passed between them, and no personal aims were theirs, save the inter- 
change of kind offices and the rivalry of love. 

O ! memorable time when St. Aidan and the Irish Monks v/ent up 
to Lindisfame and Melrose, and taught the Saxon youth, and a St. 
Cuthbert and a St. Eata repaid their gracious toil! O! blessed days of 
peace and confidence, when Mailduf penetrated to Malmesbury in the 
south, which has inherited his name, and founded there the famous 
school which gave birth to the great St. Aldhelm! O! precious seal 
and testimony of Gospel charity, when, as Aldhelm in turn tells us, 
the English went to Ireland "numerous as bees"; when the Saxon St. 
Egbert and St. Willibrod, preachers to the heathen Prisons, made the 
voyage to Ireland to prepare themselves for their work; and when 
from Ireland went forth to Germany the two noble Ewalds, Saxons 
also, to earn the crown of martyrdom. Such a period, indeed, so rich 
in grace, in peace, in love, and in good works, could only last for a 
season; but, even when the light was to pass away, the two sister 
islands were destined not to forfeit, but to transfer it. The time came 
when a neighbouring country was in turn to hold the mission they 
have so long and so well fulfdled; and, when to it they made over 
their honourable office, faithful to the alliance of two hundred years, 
they did the solemn act together. High up in the north, upon the 
Tyne, the pupil of St. Theodore, St. Adrian, and St. Bennett, for 
forty years was Bede, the hght of the whole western world; as happy, 
too, in his scholars round about him, as in his celebrity and influence 
in the length and breadth of Christendom. And, a generation before 
him, St. John of Beverly, taught by the same masters, had for thirty 
years been shedding the lustre of his sanctity and learning upon the 
Archiepiscopal school of York. Among the pupils of these celebrated 
men the learned Alcuin stood first; but Alcuin, not content even with 
the training which Saints could give him, betook himself to the sister 
island, and remained a whole twelve years in the Irish schools. When 
Charlemagne would revive science and letters in his own France, to 
England he sent for masters, and to the cloisters of St. John Beverly 
and St. Bede; and Alcuin, the scholar both of the Saxon and the Celt, 
was the chief of those who went forth to supply the need of the Great 



Emperor. Such was the foundation of the school of Paris, from which, 
in the course of centuries, sprang the famous University, the glory of 
the Middle Ages. 

The past never returns; the course of things, old in its texture, is 
ever new in its colouring and fashion. Ireland and England are not 
what they once were, but Rome is where it was; Peter is the same; 
his zeal, his charity, his mission, his gifts, are the same. He, of old 
time, made us one by making us joint teachers of the nations; and 
now, surely, he is giving us a like mission, and we shall become one 
again, while we zealously and lovingly fulfd it. 



Great as are the secular benefits ascribed by the philosopher of the 
day to the present remarkable reception in so many countries of the 
theory of Private Judgment, it is not without its political drawbacks, 
which the statesman at least, whatever be his predilections for Pro- 
testantism, cannot in candour refuse to admit. If it has stimulated the 
activity of the intellect in those nations which have surrendered them- 
selves to its influence, on the other hand it has provided no sufficient 
safeguards against that activity preying on itself This inconvenience 
indeed matters comparatively little to the man of letters, who often 
has no end in view beyond mental activity itself, of whatever descrip- 
tion, and has before now even laid it down, as the rule of his phil- 
osophy, that the good of man consists, not in the possession of truth, 
but in an interminable search after it. But it is otherwise with those 
who are engaged in the business of life, who have work and responsi- 
bility, who have measures to carry through and objects to accomphsh, 
who only see what is before them, recognize what is tangible, and 
reverence what succeeds. The statesman especially, who has to win, 
to attach, to reconcile, to secure, to govern, looks for one tiling more 
than any thing else — how he may do his work with least trouble, 
how he may best persuade the wheels of the political machine to go 
smoothly, silently, and steadily; and with this prime licsidcratiuu noth- 
ing interferes so seriously as that indefinite multiplication of opinions 



and wills wliich it is the boast of Protestantism to have introduced. 
Amid the overwhelming difficulties of his position, the most Pro- 
testant of statesmen will be sorely tempted, in disparagement of his 
cherished principles, to make a passionate wish, that the people he has 
to govern, could have, I will not say with the imperial tyrant, one 
neck, but, what is equally impossible, one private judgment. 

Tliis embarrassment makes itself especially felt, when he addresses 
himself to the great question of National Education. He is called 
upon to provide for the education of the people at large; and that the 
more urgently, because the rehgious sentiments, which Private Judg- 
ment presupposes and fosters, demand it. The classes and bodies in 
whom political power is lodged, clamour for National Education; he 
prepares himself to give them satisfaction: but Education of course 
implies principles and views, and when he proceeds to lay down any 
whatever, the very same parties who pressed him forward, from their 
zeal for Education in the abstract, fall out with each other and with 
him, about every conceivable plan wliich is proposed to them in a 
substantive shape. All demand of him, what each in turn forbids; his 
proceedings are brought to what is familiarly called "a lock"; he can 
neither advance nor recede; and he loses time and toil in attempting 
an impossible problem. It would not be wonderful, if, in these trying 
difficulties, he were to envy the comparative facility of the problem 
of Education in purely Catholic countries, where certain fundamental 
principles are felt to be as sure as external facts, and where, in con- 
sequence, it is almost as easy to construct a national system of teach- 
ing, as to raise the school-houses in which it is to be administered. 

Under these circumstances, he naturally looks about him for 
methods of ehminating from his problem its intractable conditions, 
which are wholly or principally rehgious. He sees then that all would 
go easy, could he but contrive to educate apart from rehgion, not 
compromising indeed his own private religious persuasion, whatever 
it happens to be, but excluding one and all professions of faith from 
the national system. And thus he is led, by extreme expedience and 
political necessity, to sanction the separation of secular instruction 
from religious, and to favour the establishment of what are called 
"Mixed Schools". Such a procedure, I say, on the part of a statesman, 
is but a natural effort, under the circumstances of his day, to appro- 
priate to himself a privilege, without the Church's aid, which the 
Church alone can bestow; and he becomes what is called a Liberal, as 



the very nearest approach he can make, in a Protestant country, to 
being a CathoHc. Since his schools cannot have one faith, he deter- 
mines, as the best choice left to him, that they shall have none. 

Nothing surely is more intelhgible than conduct like this; and the 
more earnest is his patriotism, the warmer his philanthropy, the 
more of statesmanship, the more of administrative talent he possesses, 
the more cordially will he adopt it. And hence it is that at the present 
day, when so much benevolence and practical wisdom arc to be 
found among public men, there is a growing movement in favour of 
Mixed Education, whether as regards the higher or the lower classes, 
on the simple ground, that nothing else remains to be done. So far, 
I say, is intelligible; but there are higher aspects of the question than 
that of political utility. My business is, not with the mere statesman, 
but with those who profess to regulate their public conduct by 
principle and logic. I want to see into what principles such a policy 
resolves itself, when submitted to a philosophical analysis, for then 
we shall be better able to determine what should be a Catholic's 
judgment upon it. 

Now, on entering upon my subject, first of all I put aside the 
question of the mixed education of the lower classes, being concerned 
only with University Education. Having done this, I am able to 
bring the question to this simple issue. A University, as the name 
implies, is the seat of universal knowledge; it follows then at once to 
ask, whether this definition of a University, which can hardly be 
gainsaid, is compatible with the political expedient which I have been 
describing: whether it is philosophical or possible to profess all 
branches of knowledge, yet to exclude one, and that one not the 
lowest in the series. 

But this, of course, is to assume that Theology is a science, and an 
important one: so I will express myself in a more general form. I say, 
then, that if a University be, from the nature of the case, a place of 
instruction, where universal knowledge is professed, and if in a certain 
University, so called, the subject of Religion is excluded, one of two 
conclusions is inevitable, — either, on the one hand, that the province 
of Religion is very barren of real knowledge, or, on the other, that in 
such University one special and important branch of knowledge is 
omitted. I say, the advocate of such an institution must say this, or 
must say that; he must own, either that little or nothing is known 
about the Supreme Being, or that his seat of learning calls itself what 

N — BB 385 


it is not. This is the thesis which I lay down, and on which I shall 
insist in the Discourse which is to follow. I repeat, such a compromise 
between religious parties, as is involved in the establishment of a 
University which makes no religious profession, implies that those 
parties severally consider, not indeed that their own respective 
opinions are trifles in a moral and practical point of view — of course 
not; but certainly as much as this, that they are not knowledge. Did 
they in their hearts believe that their private views of religion, what- 
ever they are, were absolutely and objectively true, it is inconceivable 
that they would so insult them as to consent to their omission in an 
institution which is bound, from the nature of the case — from its very 
idea and its name — to make a profession of all sorts of knowledge 

I think this will be found to be no matter of words. I allow then 
fully, that, when men combine together for any common object, they 
are obliged, as a matter of course, in order to secure the advantages 
accruing from united action, to sacrifice many of their private 
opinions and wishes, and to drop the minor differences, as they are 
commonly called, which exist between man and man. No two per- 
sons perhaps are to be found, however intimate, however congenial 
in tastes and judgments, however eager to have one heart and one 
soul, but must deny themselves, for the sake of each other, much 
which they like or desire, if they are to live together happily. Com- 
promise, in a large sense of the word, is the first principle of combina- 
tion; and any one who insists on enjoying his rights to the full, and his 
opinions without exception, and his own way in all things, will soon 
have all things altogether to himself, and no one to share them with 
him. But most true as this confessedly is, still there is an obvious limit, 
on the other hand, to these compromises, necessary as they are; and 
this is found in the proviso, that the differences surrendered should be 
but "minor", or that there should be no sacrifice of the main object 
in view, in the concessions which are mutually made. Any sacrifice 
which imphcates that object is destructive of the principle of the com- 
bination, and no one who would be consistent, can be a party to it. 

Thus, for instance, if men of various religious denominations join 
together for the dissemination of what are called "evangehcal" tracts, 
it is under the belief, that the object of their uniting, recognized on all 
hands, being the spiritual benefit of their neighbours, no religious 
exhortation, whatever be its character, can essentially interfere with 



that benefit, which is founded upon the Lutheran doctrine of Justifica- 
tion. If, again, they agree together in printing and circulating the 
Protestant Bible, it is because they, one and all, hold to the principle, 
that, however serious be their differences of religious sentiment, such 
differences fade away before the one great principle, which that cir- 
culation symbolizes — that the Bible, the whole Bible, and nothing 
but the Bible, is the religion of Protestants. On the contrary, if the 
committee of some such association inserted tracts into the copies of 
the said Bible which they sold, and tracts in recommendation of the 
Athanasian Creed or the merit of good works, I conceive any sub- 
scribing member would have a just right to complain of a proceeding, 
which compromised both the principle of Private Judgment, and the 
doctrine of Justification by faith only. These instances are sufficient 
to illustrate my general position, that coalitions and comprehensions 
for an object, have their life in the prosecution of that object, and 
cease to have any meaning as soon as that object is compromised or 

When, then, a number of persons come forward, not as pohticians, 
not as diplomatists, lawyers, traders, or speculators, but with the one 
object of advancing Universal Knowledge, much we may allow them 
to sacrifice; ambition, reputation, leisure, comfort, gold; one thing 
they may not sacrifice — Knowledge itself. Knowledge being their 
object, they need not of course insist on their own private views about 
ancient or modern history, or national prosperity, or the balance of 
power; they need not of course shrink from the cooperation of those 
who hold the opposite views, but stipulate they must that Knowledge 
itself is not compromised; and those views, of whatever kind, which 
they do allow to be dropped, it is plain they consider to be opinions, 
and nothing more, however dear, however important to themselves 
personally; opinions ingenious, admirable, pleasurable, beneficial, 
expedient, but not worthy the name of Knowledge or Science. Thus 
no one v/ould insist on the Malthusian theory being a sine qua tion in 
a seat of learning, who did not think it simply ignorance not to be 
a Malthusian; and no one would consent to drop the Newtonian 
theory, who thought it to be proved true, in the same sense as the 
existence of the sun and moon is true. If, then, in an Institution which 
professes all knowledge, nothing is professed, nothing is taught about 
the Supreme Being, it is fiir to infer that every individual of all those 
who advocate that Institution, supposing him consistent, distinctly 



holds that nothing is known for certain about the Supreme Being; 
nothing such as to have any claim to be regarded as an accession to the 
stock of general knowledge existing in the world. If on the other 
hand it turns out that something considerable is known about the 
Supreme Being, whether from Reason or Revelation, then the 
Institution in question professes every science, and leaves out the 
foremost of them. In a word, strong as may appear the assertion, I 
do not see how I can avoid making it, and bear with me, Gentlemen, 
while I do so, viz.: such an Institution camiot be what it professes, if 
there be a God. I do not wish to declaim; but, by the very force of 
the terms, it is very plain, that God and such a University caimot 

Still, however, this may seem to many an abrupt conclusion, and 
will not be acquiesced in: what answer. Gentlemen, will be made to 
it? Perhaps this: — It will be said, that there are different kinds or 
spheres of Knowledge, human, divine, sensible, intellectual, and the 
like; and that a University certainly takes in all varieties of Knowledge 
in its own line, but still that it has a line of its own. It contemplates, it 
occupies a certain order, a certain platform of Knowledge. I under- 
stand the remark; but I own to you, Gentlemen, I do not understand 
how it can be made to apply to the matter in hand. I cannot so con- 
struct my defmition of the subject matter of University Knowledge, 
and so draw my boundary lines around it, to include therein the other 
sciences commonly studied at Universities, and to exclude the science 
of Religion. Are we to limit our idea of University Knowledge by 
the evidence of our senses? then we exclude history; by testimony? we 
exclude metaphysics; by abstract reasoning? we exclude physics. Is 
not the being of a God reported to us by testimony, handed down by 
history, inferred by an inductive process, brought home to us by 
metaphysical necessity, urged on us by the suggestions of our con- 
science? It is a truth in the natural order, as well as in the supernatural. 
So much for its origin; and, when obtained, what is it v/orth? Is it a 
great truth or a small one? Is it a comprehensive truth? Say that no 
other religious idea whatever were given but it, and you have enough 
to fill the mind; you have at once a whole dogmatic system. The 
word "God" is a theology in itself, indivisibly one, inexhaustibly 
various, from the vastness and the simplicity of its meaning. Admit a 
God, and you introduce among the subjects of your knowledge, a 
fact encompassing, closing in upon, absorbing, every other fact con- 


ceivable. How can wc investigate any part of any order of Know- 
ledge, and stop short of that which enters into every order? All true 
principles run over with it, all phenomena run into it; it is truly the 
First and the Last. In word indeed, and in idea, it is easy enough to 
divide Knowledge into human and divine, secular and religious, and 
to lay down that we will address ourselves to the one without inter- 
fering with the other; but it is impossible in fact. Granting that 
divine truth differs in kind from human, so do human truths differ in 
kind one from another. If the knowledge of the Creator is in a 
different order from knowledge of the creature, so, in like manner, 
metaphysical science is in a different order from physical, physics from 
history, history from ethics. You will soon break up into fragments 
the whole circle of secular knowledge, if you begin the mutilation 
with divine. 

I have been speaking simply of Natural Theology; my argument 
of course is stronger when I go on to Revelation. Let the doctrine of 
the Incarnation be true: is it not at once of the nature of an historical 
fact, and of a metaphysical? Let it be true that there are Angels : how 
is this not a point of knowledge in the same sense as the naturahst's 
asseveration, that there are myriads of living things on the point of a 
needle? That the Earth is to be burned by fire, is, if true, as large a 
fact as that huge monsters once played amid its depths; that Antichrist 
is to come, is as categorical a heading to a chapter of history, as that 
Nero or Julian was Emperor of Rome; that a divine influence moves 
the will, is a subject of thought not more mysterious than the effect 
of volition on the animal frame. 

I do not see how it is possible for a philosophical mind, first, to 
believe these religious facts to be true; next, to consent to put them 
aside; and thirdly, in spite of this, to go on to profess to be teacliing 
all the while de oiiini scihili. No; if a man thinks in his heart that these 
religious facts are short of truth, are not true in the sense in which the 
motion of the Earth is true, I understand his excluding Religion from 
his University, though he professes other reasons for its exclusion. In 
that case the varieties of religious opinions under which he shelters his 
conduct, are not only his apology for publicly ignoring religion, but 
a cause of his privately disbelieving it. He does not think that any 
thing is known or can be known for certain, about the origin of the 
world or the end of man. 

This, I fear, is the conclusion to which intellects, clear, logical, and 



consistent, have come, or are coming, from the nature of the case; 
and, alas ! in addition to this prima facie suspicion, there are actual 
tendencies in the same direction in Protestantism, viewed whether in 
its original idea, or again in the so-called Evangehcal movement in 
these islands during the last century. The religious world, as it is 
styled, holds, generally speaking, that religion consists, not in know- 
ledge, but in feeling or sentiment. The old Catholic notion, which 
still lingers in the Established Church, was, that Faith was an intel- 
lectual act, its object truth, and its result knowledge. Thus if you look 
into the Anglican Prayer Book, you will fmd definite credenda, as well 
as definite agenda; but in proportion as the Lutheran leaven spread, it 
became fashionable to say that Faith was but a feehng, an emotion, an 
affection, an appetency, not an act of the intellect; and as this view of 
Faith obtained, so was its connexion with Truth and Knowledge more 
and more either forgotten or denied. The Prayer Book, indeed, con- 
tained the Creed, among other memorials of antiquity; but a question 
began to be agitated whether its recital was any thing better than the 
confession of a dead faith, the faith of devils, formal, technical, soul- 
deceiving, not the guarantee at all of what was deemed to be spiritual 
renovation. It was objected too, that whereas there was just one 
doctrine which was adapted to move the feelings, open the heart, and 
change corrupt nature, viz. — the Atonement, that doctrine was not to 
be found there. Then again, spiritual-mindedness and heavenly- 
mindedness consisted, according to the school in question, not, as a 
Cathohc would say, in a straightforward acceptance of revealed 
truth, and an acting upon it, but in a dreamy and sickly state of soul; 
in an effort after religious conversation; in a facility of detailing what 
men called experiences; nay, I will add, in a constrained gravity of 
demeanour, and an imnatural tone of voice. Now many men laughed 
at all this, many men admired it; but whether they admired or 
laughed, both the one party and the other found themselves in agree- 
ment on the main point, viz. — in considering that this really was in 
substance Religion; that Religion was based, not on argument, but on 
taste and sentiment, that nothing was objective, every thing subjec- 
tive, in doctrine. I say, even those who saw through the affectation in 
which the religious school of which I am speaking clad itself, still came 
to think that Religion, as such, consisted in something short of intel- 
lectual exercises, viz., in the affections, in the imagination, in inward 
persuasions and consolations, in pleasurable sensations, sudden 



changes, and sublime fancies. They learned to say, that Religion was 
nothing beyond a supply of the wants of human nature, not an external 
fact and a work of God. There was, it appeared, a demand for 
Religion, and therefore there was a supply; human nature could not 
do without Religion, any more than it could do without bread; a 
supply was absolutely necessary, good or bad, and, as in the case of 
the articles of daily sustenance, an article which was really inferior was 
better than none at all. Thus Religion was useful, venerable, beautiful, 
the sanction of order, the stay of government, the curb of self-will and 
self-indulgence, which the laws cannot reach: but, after all, on what 
was it based? Why, that was a question delicate to ask, and imprudent 
to answer; but, if the truth must be spoken, however reluctantly, the 
long and the short of the matter was this, that Rehgion was based on 
custom, on prejudice, on law, on education, on habit, on loyalty, on 
feudalism, on enlightened experience, on many, many things, but not 
at all on Reason; Reason was not in the number. It is true. Rational 
Religion is spoken of in the circles in question; but, when you care- 
fully consider the matter, you will fmd this does not mean a kind of 
Religion which is built upon Reason, but merely a Religion which 
does not interfere with Reason, which does not clash with what are 
considered rational ideas, with rational pursuits, rational enjoyment 
of life, and rational views of the next world. 

You see. Gentlemen, how a theory or philosophy, which began 
with Luther, the Puritans, and Wesley, has been taken up by that 
large and influential body which goes by the name of Liberal or 
Latitudinarian; and how, where it prevails, it is as unreasonable of 
course to demand for Religion a chair in a University, as to demand 
one for fme feeling, sense of honour, patriotism, gratitude, maternal 
affection, or good companionship, proposals which would be simply 

Now, in support of what I have been saying, I will appeal, in the 
first place, to a statesman, but not merely so, to no mere politician, no 
trader in places, or votes, or the stock market, but to a philosopher, 
to an orator, to one whose profession, whose aim has ever been to 
cultivate the fair, the noble, and the generous. I cannot forget the 
celebrated discourse of the celebrated man to whom I am alluding; 
a man who is first in his peculiar walk; whose talents have earned for 
him nobility at home, and a more than European name; and who, 
moreover (which is much to my purpose), has had a share, as much 



as any one alive, in effecting the public recognition in these Islands of 
the principle of Mixed Education, This able person, during the years 
in which he was exerting himself in its behalf, made a speech or dis- 
course, on occasion of a pubHc solemnity; and in reference to the 
bearing of general knowledge upon religious belief, he spoke as follow s : 

"As men", he said, "will no longer suffer themselves to be led blind- 
fold in ignorance, so will they no more yield to the vile principle of 
judging and treating their fellow-creatures, not according to the 
intrinsic merit of their actions, but according to the accidental and 
involuntary coincidence of their opinions. The Great Truth has 
finally gone forth to all the ends of the earth", and he prints it in 
capital letters, "that man shall no more render account to man for his 
belief, over which he has himself no control. Henceforward, nothing 
shall prevail upon us to praise or to blame any one for that which he 
can no more change, than he can the hue of his skin or the height of 
his stature".-^ You see. Gentlemen, if this philosopher is to decide the 
matter, rehgious ideas are just as far from being real, or representing 
an external object, are as truly imaginations, idiosyncracies, accidents 
of the individual, as his having the stature of a Patagonian, or the 
features of a Negro. 

But perhaps this was the rhetoric of an excited moment. Far from 
it, Gentlemen, or I should not have fastened on the words of a fertile 
mind, uttered so long ago. What Mr. Brougham laid down as a 
principle in 1825, resounds on all sides of us, with ever growing 
confidence and success, in 1852. I open the Minutes of the Com- 
mittee of Council on Education for the years 1 848-50, presented to 
both Houses of Parliament by command of her Majesty, and I find 
one of her Majesty's Inspectors of Schools, at p. 467 of the second 
volume, dividing "the topics usually embraced in the better class of 
primary schools" into four: — the knowledge o£ signs, as reading and 
writing; o£ facts, as geography and astronomy; o£ relations and laws, as 
mathematics; and lastly sentiment, such as poetry and music. Now, on 
first catching this division, it occurred to me to ask myself, before 
ascertaining the writer's ovm resolution of the matter, under which 
of these four heads fell Religion, or whether it fell under any of them. 
Did he put it aside as a thing too delicate and sacred to be enumerated 
with earthly studies? or did he distinctly contemplate it when he 
made his division? Any how, I could really find a place for it under 
^ Mr. Brougham's Glasgow Discourse. 



the first head, or the second, or the third; for it has to do with facts, 
since it tells of the Self-subsisting; it has to do with relations, for it 
tells of the Creator; it has to do with signs, for it tells of the due 
manner of speaking of Him, There was just one head of the division 
to which I could not refer it, viz., to sentiment; for, I suppose, music 
and poetry, which are the writer's own examples of sentiment, have 
not much to do with Truth, which is the sole object of Religion. 
Judge then my surprise, Gentlemen, when I found the fourth was the 
very head selected by the writer of the Report in question, as the 
special receptacle of religious topics, "The inculcation of sentiment", 
he says, "embraces reading in its higher sense, poetry, music, together 
with moral and religious education". What can be clearer than that, 
in this writer's idea (whom I am far from introducing for his own 
sake, because I have no wish to hurt the feelings of a gentleman, who 
is but exerting himself zealously in the discharge of anxious duties; I 
do but introduce liim as an illustration of the wide-spreading school 
of thought to which he belongs); what, I say, can more clearly prove 
than a candid avowal like this, that, in the view of that school, 
Religion is not knowledge, has nothing whatever to do with know- 
ledge, and is excluded from a University course of instruction, not 
simply because the exclusion cannot be helped, from pohtical or 
social obstacles, but because it has no business there at all, because it 
is to be considered a mere taste, sentiment, opinion, and nothing 
more? The writer avows this conclusion himself, in the explanation 
into which he presently enters, in which he says: "According to the 
classification proposed, the essential idea of all religious education will 
consist in the direct cultivation of the feelings" . Here is Lutheranism 
sublimated into philosophy; what we contemplate, what we aim at, 
when we give a religious education, is, not to impart any knowledge 
whatever, but to satisfy anyhow, desires which will arise after the 
Unseen in spite of us, to provide the mind with a means of self- 
command, to impress on it the beautiful ideas which saints and sages 
have struck out, to embellish it with the bright hues of a celestial 
piety, to teach it the poetry of devotion, the music of well-ordered 
affections, and the luxury of doing good. The soul comes forth 
from her bower, for the adoration of the lecture-room and the saloon; 
like the first woman, in the poet's description, 

"Grace is in all her steps, heaven in her eye, 
hi every gesture dignity and love". 



As for the intellect, on the other hand, its exercise is only indirect 
in religious education, as being an instrument in a moral work (true 
or false, it matters little, or rather anything must be true, wliich is 
capable of reaching the end proposed); or again, as the unavoidable 
attendant on moral impressions, from the constitution of the human 
mind, but varying with the peculiarities of the individual.^ Some- 
thing like this seems to be the writer's meaning, but we need not pry 
into its finer issues in order to gain a distinct view of its general bear- 
ing; and taking it, as I think we fairly may take it, as a specimen of 
the philosophy of the day, as adopted by those who are not conscious 
unbelievers, or open scoffers, I consider it amply explains how it 
comes to pass that the day's philosophy sets up a system of universal 
knowledge, and teaches of plants, and earths, and creeping things, and 
beasts, and gases, about the crust of the Earth, and the changes of the 
atmosphere, about sun, moon, and stars, about man and his doings, 
about the history of the world, about sensation, memory, and the 
passions, about duty, about cause and effect, about all things imagin- 
able, except one — and that is, about Him that made all these things, 
about God. I say the reason is plain, because they consider know- 
ledge, as regards the creature, is illimitable, but impossible or hopeless 
as regards the Creator. 

Here, however, it may be objected to me that this representation is 
certainly extreme, for the school in question does, in fact, lay great 
stress on the evidence afforded by the creation, to the Being and 
Attributes of the Creator. I may be referred, for instance, to the 
words of one of the speakers, at the solemnities which took place, at 
the time when the principle of Mixed Education was first formally 
inaugurated in the metropolis of the sister island. On the occasion of 
laying the first stone of the University of London, I confess it, a 

^ "In the diverse schools", he says, "amongst which my labours are carried 
on, there are some, in which the Bible is the sole basis of religious instruction; 
and there are others, in which catechisms, or other abstracts of doctrine, are 
employed. As far as my own observation extends, it has ever appeared perfectly 
indifferent, as to the results, what precise method or instrumentality may be 
adopted. I have seen the happiest, and I have seen the most unsatisfactory 
results, alike under both systems. In each case, the mere instrument of teaching 
is of small importance compared with the spirit which is infused into it by the 
teacher. The danger in each case is, that of employing the instrument simply 
as the basis of an intellectual exercise, and losing sight of the moral and religious 
sentiment it is intended to draw forth". 



learned person, since elevated to the Protestant See of Durham, which 
he still fills, opened the proceedings with prayer. He addressed the 
Deity, as the authoritative Report informs us, "the whole surround- 
ing assembly standing uncovered in solemn silence". "Thou", he 
said, in the name of all the denominations present, "thou hast con- 
structed the vast fabric of the universe in so wonderful a manner, so 
arranged its motions, and so formed its productions, that the con- 
templation and study of thy works exercise at once the mind in the 
pursuit of human science, and lead it onwards to Divine Truth". Here 
is apparently a distinct recognition that there is such a thing as Truth 
in the province of Religion; and, did the passage stand by itself, and 
were it the only means we possessed of ascertaining the sentiments, 
not of this divine himself (for I am not concerned with him person- 
ally), but of the powerful body whom he there represented, it would, 
as far as it goes, be satisfactory. I admit it; and I admit also the 
recognition of the Being and certain Attributes of the Deity, con- 
tained in the writings of the noble and gifted person whom I have 
already quoted, whose genius, versatile and multiform as it is, in 
nothing has been so constant, as in its devotion to the advancement 
of knowledge, scientific and literary. He then, in his "Discourse of 
the objects, advantages, and pleasures of science", after variously 
illustrating what he terms its "gratifying treats", crowns the cata- 
logue with "the highest o£ all our gratifications in the contemplation 
of science", which he proceeds to explain thus: 

"We are raised by them", he says, "to an understanding of the 
infinite wisdom and goodness which the Creator has displayed in all 
His works. Not a step can be taken in any direction", he continues, 
"without perceiving the most extraordinary traces of design; and tlie 
skill, every where conspicuous, is calculated in so vast a proportion of 
instances to promote the happiness of living creatures, and especially 
of ourselves, that we can feel no hesitation in concluding, that, if we 
knew the whole scheme of Providence, every part would be in 
harmony with a plan of absolute benevolence. Independent, how- 
ever, of this most consoling inference, the delight is inexpressible, of 
being able to follow, as it were, with our eyes, the marvellous works 
of the Great Architect of Nature, to trace the unbounded power and 
exquisite skill which are exhibited in the most minute, as well as the 
mightiest parts of His system. The pleasure derived from this study 
is unceasing, and so various, that it never tires the appetite. But it is 



unlike the low gratifications of sense in another respect: it elevates 
and refines our nature, while those hurt the health, debase the under- 
standing, and corrupt the feelings; it teaches us to look upon all 
earthly objects as insignificant and below our notice, except the pur- 
suit of knowledge and the cultivation of virtue, that is to say, the 
strict performance of our duty in every relation of society; and it 
gives a dignity and importance to the enjoyment of life, which the 
frivolous and the grovelling cannot even comprehend". 

Such are the words of this prominent champion of Mixed Educa- 
tion. If logical inference be, as it undoubtedly is, an instrument of 
truth, surely, it may be answered to me, in admitting the possibility 
of inferring the Divine Being and Attributes /ro/n the phenomena of 
nature, he distinctly admits a basis of truth in the doctrines of Religion. 

I wish. Gentlemen, to give these representations their full weight, 
both from the gravity of the question, and the consideration due to 
the persons whom I am arraigning; but, before I can feel sure I under- 
stand them, I must ask an abrupt question. When I am told, then, by 
the partizans of Mixed Education, that human science leads to belief 
in a Supreme Being, without denying, nay, as a Catholic, with full 
conviction of the fact, — yet I am obliged to ask what the statement 
means in their mouth, what they, the speakers, understand by the 
word "God". Let me not be thought offensive, if I question, whether 
it means the same thing on the two sides of the controversy. With 
us Cathohcs, as with the first race of Protestants, as with Mahometans, 
and all Theists, the word contains, as I have already said, a theology 
in itself. At the risk of anticipating what I shall have occasion 
to insist upon in my next Discourse, let me say that, according to 
the teaching of Monotheism, God is an Individual, Self-dependent, 
All-perfect, Unchangeable Being; intelligent, living, personal, and 
present; almighty, all-seeing, all-remembering; between whom and 
His creatures there is an infinite gulf; who had no origin, who passed 
an eternity by Himself; who created and upholds the universe; who 
will judge every one of us, at the end of time, according to that Law 
of right and wrong which He has written on our hearts. He is one 
who is sovereign over, operative amidst, independent of, the appoint- 
ments which He has made; one in whose hands are all things, who has 
a purpose in every event, and a standard for every deed, and thus has 
relations of His own towards the subject matter of each particular 
science which the book of knowledge unfolds; who has with an 



adorable, never-ceasing energy mixed Himself up with all the history 
of creation, the constitution of nature, the course of the world, the 
origin of society, the fortunes of nations, the action of the human 
mind; and who thereby necessarily becomes the subject matter of a 
science, far wider and more noble than any of those which are in- 
cluded in the circle of secular education. 

This is the doctrine which belief in a God implies: if it means any 
thing, it means all this, and cannot keep from meaning all this, and a 
great deal more; and, though there were nothing in Protestantism, 
as such, to disparage dogmatic truth (and I have shown there is a 
great deal), still, even then, I should have difficulty in believing that 
a doctrine so mysterious, so peremptory, approved itself as a matter 
of course to educated men of this day, who gave their minds atten- 
tively to consider it. Rather, in a state of society such as ours, in 
which authority, prescription, tradition, habit, moral instinct, and the 
influences of grace go for nothing, in which patience of thought, and 
depth and consistency of view, are scorned as subtle and scholastic, in 
which free discussion and fallible judgment are prized as the birth- 
right of each individual, I must be excused if I exercise towards this 
age, as regards its belief in this doctrine, some portion of that 
scepticism which it exercises itself towards every received but un- 
scrutinized assertion whatever. I cannot take it for granted, I must 
have it brought home to me by tangible evidence, that the spirit of 
the age means by the Supreme Being what Cathohcs mean. Nay, it 
would be a relief to my mind to gain some ground of assurance, that 
the parties influenced by that spirit had, I will not say, a true ap- 
prehension of God, but even so much as the idea of what a true 
apprehension is. 

Nothing is easier than to use the word, and mean nothing by it. 
The heathens used to say, "God wills", when they meant "Fate"; 
"God provides", when they meant "Chance"; "God acts", when they 
meant "Instinct" or "Sense"; and "God is every where", when they 
meant "the Soul of Nature". The Almighty is something infmitely 
different from a principle, or a centre of action, or a quality, or a 
generalization of phenomena. If then, by the word, you do but mean 
a Being who has contrived the world and keeps it in order, who acts 
in it, but only in the way of general Providence, who acts towards us 
but only through, what are called, laws of Nature, who is more 
certain not to act at all, than to act independent of those laws, who is 



known and approached indeed, but only through the medium of 
those laws; such a God it is not difficult for any one to conceive, not 
difficult for any one to endure. If, I say, as you would revolutionize 
society, so you would revolutionize heaven, if you have changed the 
divine sovereignty into a sort of constitutional monarchy, in wliich 
the Throne has honour and ceremonial enough, but cannot issue the 
most ordinary command except through legal forms and precedents, 
and with the counter-signature of a minister, then belief in a God is 
no more than an acknowledgment of existing, sensible powers and 
phenomena, which none but an idiot can deny. If the Supreme Being 
is powerful or skilful, just so far forth as the telescope shows power, 
and the microscope shows skill, if His moral law is to be ascertained 
simply by the physical processes of the animal frame, or His will 
gathered from the immediate issues of human affairs, if His Essence 
is just as high and deep and broad and long, as the universe, and no 
more; if this be the fact, then will I confess that there is no specific 
science about God, that theology is but a name, and a protest in its 
behalf an hypocrisy. Then, is He but coincident with the laws of the 
universe; then is He but a function, or correlative, or subjective 
reflection and mental impression of each phenomenon of the material 
or moral world, as it flits before us. Then, pious as it is to think of 
Him, while the pageant of experiment or abstract reasoning passes 
by, still such piety is nothing more than a poetry of thought or an 
ornament of language, and has not even an infinitesimal influence 
upon pliilosophy or science, of wliich it is rather the parasitical pro- 
duction. I understand, in that case, why Theology should require no 
specific teaching, for there is nothing to mistake about; why it is 
powerless against scientific conclusions, for it merely is one of them; 
why it is simply absurd in its denunciations of heresy, for it does but 
lie itself in the province of opinion. I understand, in that case, how it 
is that the religious sense is but a "sentiment", and its exercise a 
"gratifying treat", for it is like the sense of the beautiful or the sub- 
lime. I understand how the contemplation of the universe "leads on- 
wards to divine truth", for divine truth is but Nature with a divine 
glow upon it. I understand the zeal expressed for Natural Theology, 
for this study is but a mode of looking at Nature, a certain view taken 
of Nature, private and personal, which one man has, and another has 
not, which gifted minds strike out, which others see to be admirable 
and ingenious, and which all would be the better for adopting. It 



is the theology of Nature, just as we talk of the philosophy or the 
romance of history, or the poetry of childhood, or the picturesque, or 
the sentimental, or the humorous, or any other abstract quality, 
which the genius or the caprice of the individual, or the fashion of the 
day, or the consent of the world, recognizes in any set of objects 
which are subjected to its contemplation. 

Such ideas of Religion seem to me short of Monotheism; I do not 
impute them to this or that individual who belongs to the school 
which gives them currency; but what I read about the "gratification" 
of keeping pace in our scientific researches with "the Architect of 
Nature"; about the said gratification "giving a dignity and impor- 
tance to the enjoyment of life", and teaching us that knowledge and 
our duties to society are the only earthly subject worth our notice, all 
this, I own it, Gentlemen, frightens me; nor is Dr. Maltby's address 
to the Deity amid "solemn silence" sufficient to reassure me. I do 
not see much difference between saying that there is no God, and 
implying that nothing definite can for certain be known about Him; 
and when I find Religious Education treated as the cultivation of 
sentiment, and Religious Belief as the accidental hue or posture of the 
mind, I am reluctantly but forcibly reminded of a very unpleasant 
page of Metaphysics, of the relations between God and Nature in- 
sinuated by such philosophers as Hume. This acute though most low- 
minded of speculators, in his inquiry concerning the Human Under- 
standing, introduces, as is well known, Epicurus, that is, a teacher 
of atheism, delivering an harangue to the Athenian people, not in 
defence, but in extenuation of that opinion. His object is to show 
that, whereas the atheistic view is nothing else than the repudiation 
of theory, and an accurate representation of phenomenon and fact, it 
cannot be dangerous, unless phenomenon and fact be dangerous. 
Epicurus is made to say, that the paralogism of philosophy has ever 
been the arguing from Nature in behalf of sometliing beyond Nature, 
greater than Nature; whereas God, as he maintains, being known only 
through the visible world, our knowledge of Him is absolutely com- 
mensurate with our knowledge of it, is nothing distinct from it, is but 
a mode of viewing it. Hence it follows that, provided we admit, as 
we cannot help doing, the phenomena of Nature and the world, it is 
only a question of words whether or not we go on to the hypothesis 
of a second Being, not visible but immaterial, parallel and coincident 
with Nature, to whom we give the name of God. "Allowing", he 



says, "the gods to be the authors of the existence or order of the 
universe, it follows that they possess that precise degree of power, 
intelligence, and benevolence, which appears in their workmanship; 
but nothing farther can be proved, except we call in the assistance 
of exaggeration and flattery to supply the defects of argument and 
reasoning. So far as the traces of any attributes, at present, appear, so 
far may we conclude these attributes to exist. The supposition of 
farther attributes is mere hypothesis; much more the supposition, that, 
in distant periods of place and time, there has been, or will be, a more 
magnificent display of these attributes, and a scheme of administra- 
tion more suitable to such imaginary virtues". 

Here is a reasoner, who would not hesitate to deny that there is any 
distinct science or philosophy possible concerning the Supreme Being; 
since every single thing we know of Him is tliis or that or the other 
phenomenon, material or moral, which already falls under this or that 
natural science. In him then it would be only consistent to drop 
Theology in a course of University Education; but how is it con- 
sistent in any one who shrinks from his companionship? I am glad to 
see that the author, several times mentioned, is in opposition to Hume, 
in one sentence of the quotation I have made from his Discourse upon 
Science, deciding, as he does, that the phenomena of the material 
world are insufficient for the full exhibition of the Divine Attributes, 
and implying that they require a supplemental process to complete 
and harmonize their evidence. But is not this supplemental process a 
science? and if so, why not acknowledge its existence? If God is more 
than Nature, Theology claims a place among the sciences: but, on the 
other hand, if you are not sure of this, how do you differ from Hume 
or Epicurus? 

I end then as I began: religious doctrine is Knowledge. This is the 
important truth, little entered into at this day, which I wish that all 
who have honoured me with their presence here, would allow me to 
beg them to take away with them. I am not catching at sharp argu- 
ments, but laying down grave principles. Rehgious doctrine is 
knowledge, in as full a sense as Newton's doctrine is knowledge. 
Mixed Education, at least in a University, is simply unphilosophical. 
Theology has at least as good a right to claim a place there as 
astronomy. In my next Discourse it will be my object to show, that 
its omission from the list of recognized sciences, is not only indefen- 
sible in itself, but prejudicial to all the rest. 





When men of great intellect, who have long and intently and 
exclusively given themselves to the study or investigation of some one 
particular branch of secular knowledge, whose mental life is con- 
centrated and hidden in their chosen pursuit, and who have neither 
eyes or ears for anything which does not immediately bear upon it, 
when such men are at length made to reahze that there is a clamour 
all around them, which must be heard, for what they have been so 
little accustomed to place in the category of knowledge as Religion, 
and that they themselves are accused of disaffection to it, they are 
impatient at the interruption; they call the demand tyrannical, and 
the requisitionists bigots or fanatics. They are tempted to say, that 
their only wish is to be let alone; for themselves , they are not dream- 
ing of offending any one, or interfering with any one; they are 
pursuing their own particular line, they have never spoken a word 
against anyone's religion, whoever he may be, and never mean to do 
so. It does not follow that they deny the existence of a God, because 
they are not talking of it, when the topic would be utterly irrelevant. 
All they say is, that there are other beings in the world besides the 
Supreme Being; their business is with them. After all, the creation 
is not the Creator, nor things secular religious. Theology and human 
science are two things, not one, and have their respective provinces, 
contiguous it may be and cognate to each other, but not identical. 
When we are contemplating earth, we are not contemplating heaven; 
and when we are contemplating heaven, we are not contemplating 
earth. Separate subjects should be treated separately. As division of 
labour, so division of thought is the only means of successful applica- 
tion. "Let us go our own way", they say, "and you go yours. We 
do not pretend to lecture on Theology, and you have no claim to pro- 
nounce upon Science". 

With this feeling they attempt a sort of compromise, between their 
opponents who claim for Theology a free introduction into the 
schools of science, and themselves who would exclude it altogether, 
and it is this: viz., that it should remain indeed excluded from the 

N-cc 401 


public schools, but that it should be permitted in private, wherever a 
sufficient number of persons is found to desire it. Such persons may 
have it all their own v/ay, w^hen they are by themselves, so that they 
do not attempt to disturb a comprehensive system of instruction, 
acceptable and useful to all, by the intrusion of opinions peculiar to 
their own minds. 

I am now going to attempt a philosophical answer to this view of 
the subject, that is, to the project of teaching secular knowledge in the 
University Lecture Room, and remanding religious knowledge to 
the parish priest, the catechism, and the parlour; and in doing so, you 
must pardon me. Gentlemen, if I find it necessary to sacrifice com- 
position to logical distinctness, and trust to the subject itself to give 
interest to processes of thought, which I fear in themselves may be 
wearisome to follow. I begin then thus: — 

Truth is the object of Knowledge of whatever kind; and when we 
inquire what is meant by Truth, I suppose it is right to answer that 
Truth means facts and their relations, which stand towards each other 
pretty much as subjects and predicates in logic. All that exists, as con- 
templated by the human mind, forms one large system or complex 
fact, and this of course resolves itself into an indefinite number of 
particular facts, which, as being portions of a whole, have countless 
relations of every kind, one tov/ards another. Knowledge is the 
apprehension of these facts, whether in themselves, or in their mutual 
positions and bearings. And, as all taken together form one integral 
object, so there are no natural or real limits between part and part; one 
is ever running into another; all, as viewed by the mind, are com- 
bined together, and possess a correlative character one with another, 
from the internal mysteries of the Divine Essence down to our own 
sensations and consciousness, from the most solemn appointments of 
the Lord of all down to what may be called the accident of the hour, 
from the most glorious seraph down to the vilest and most noxious 
of reptiles. 

Now, it is not wonderful, that, with all its capabilities, the human 
mind cannot take in this whole vast fact at a single glance, or gain 
possession of it at once. Like a short-sighted reader, its eye pores 
closely, and travels slowly, over the awful volume which lies open 
for its inspection. Or again, as we deal with some huge structure of 
many parts and sides, the mind goes round about it, noting down, 
first one thing, then another, as it may, and viewing it under different 



aspects, by way of making progress towards mastering the whole. So 
by degrees and by circuitous advances does it rise aloft and subject to 
itself that universe into wliich it has been born. 

These various partial views or abstractions, by means of which the 
mind looks out upon its object, are called sciences, and embrace 
respectively larger or smaller portions of the field of knowledge; 
sometimes extending far and wide, but superficially, sometimes with 
exactness over particular departments, sometimes occupied together 
on one and the same portion, sometimes holding onejjjart in common, 
and then ranging on this side or that in absolute divergence one from 
the other. Thus Optics has for its subject the whole visible creation, 
so far forth as it is simply visible; Mental Philosophy has a narrower 
province, but goes deeper into it; Astronomy, plane and physical, 
each has the same subject matter, but views it or treats it differently; 
lastly Geology and Comparative Anatomy have subject matters partly 
the same, partly distinct. Now these views or sciences, as being 
abstractions, have far more to do with the relations of things, than 
with things themselves. They tell us what things are, only or princi- 
pally by telling us their relations, or assigning predicates to subjects; 
and therefore they never tell us all that can be said about a thing, even 
when they tell something, nor bring it before us, as the senses do. 
They arrange and classify facts; they bring separate phenomena under 
a common law; they trace effects to a cause. Thus they serve to 
transfer our knowledge from the custody of memory to the surer and 
more abiding protection of philosophy, thereby providing both for 
its spread and its advance: — for, inasmuch as sciences are forms of 
knowledge, they enable the intellect to master and increase it; and, 
inasmuch as they are instruments, to communicate it readily to others. 
Still, after all, they proceed on the principle of a division of labour, 
even though that division is an abstraction, not a literal separation into 
parts; and, as the maker of a bridle or an epaulet has not, on that 
account, any idea of the science of tactics or strategy, so in a parallel 
way, it is not every science, which equally, nor any one which fully, 
enlightens the mind in the knowledge of things, as they are, or brings 
home to it the external object on which it wishes to gaze. Thus they 
differ in importance: and according to their importance, will be their 
influence, not only on the mass of knowledge to which thc\' all con- 
verge and contribute, but on each other. 

Since then sciences are the results of mental processes about one 



and the same subject matter, viewed under various aspects, and are 
true results, as far as they go, yet at the same time independent and 
partial, it follows that on the one hand they need external assistance, 
one by one, by reason of their incompleteness, and on the other 
that they are able to afford it to each other, by reason, first, of their 
distinctness in themselves, and then, of their identity in their subject 
matter. Viewed all together, they become the nearest approximation 
to a representation or subjective reflexion of the objective truth, pos- 
sible to the human mind, which advances towards the accurate appre- 
hension of that object, in proportion to the number of sciences it has 
mastered; and which, when certain sciences are wanting, in such a 
case has but a defective apprehension, in proportion to the value of 
the sciences which are thus wanting, and the importance of the field 
on which they are employed. 

Let us take, for instance, man himself as our object of contempla- 
tion; then at once we shall fmd we can view him in a variety of rela- 
tions; and according to those relations, are the sciences of which he is 
the subject matter, and, according to our acquaintance with them is 
our possession of a true knowledge of him. We may view him in 
relation to the material elements of his body, or to his mental con- 
stitution, or to his household and family, or to the community in 
which he lives, or to the Being who made him; and in consequence 
we treat of him respectively as physiologists, or as moral pliilosophers, 
or as writers of economics, or of politics, or as theologians. When we 
think of liim in all these relations together, or as the subject at once of 
all the sciences I have alluded to, then we may be said to reach unto 
and rest in the idea of man as an object or external fact, similar to that 
which the eye takes of his outward form. On the other hand, accord- 
ing as we are only physiologists, or only pohticians, or only moralists, 
so is our idea of man more or less unreal; we do not take in the whole 
of him, and the defect is greater or less, in proportion as the relation 
is, or is not, important, which is omitted, whether his relation to 
God, or his king, or his children, or liis own component parts. And 
if there be one relation, about wliich we know nothing at all except 
that it exists, then is our knowledge of him, confessedly and to our 
own consciousness, deficient and partial, and that, I repeat, in propor- 
tion to the importance of the relation. 

That therefore is true of sciences in general, wliich we are apt to 
think applies only to pure mathematics, though to pure mathematics 



it applies especially, viz., that they cannot be considered as simple 
representations or informants of things as they are. Wc arc accus- 
tomed to say, and say truly, that the conclusions of pure mathematics 
are applied, corrected, and adapted, but mixed; but so too the con- 
clusions of Physiology, Geology, and other sciences, are revised and 
completed by each other. Those conclusions do not represent whole 
and substantive facts, but views, true, so far as they go; and in order 
to ascertain how far they do go, that is, how far they correspond to the 
object, to which they belong, we must compare them with the views 
taken of that object by other sciences. Did we proceed upon the 
abstract theory of forces, wc should assign a much more ample range 
to a projectile, than in fact the resistance of the air allows it to accom- 
plish. Let, however, that resistance be made the subject of scientific 
analysis, and then we shall have a new science, assisting, and to a cer- 
tain point completing, for the benefit of questions of fact, the science 
of projection. On the other hand, the science of projection itself, con- 
sidered as belonging to impulsive forces , is not more perfect, as such, 
by this supplementary investigation. And in like manner, as regards 
the whole circle of sciences, one corrects another for purposes of fact, 
and one without the other cannot dogmatize, except hypothetically 
and upon its own abstract principles. For instance, the Newtonian 
philosophy requires the admission of certain metaphysical postulates, 
if it is to be more than a theory or an hypothesis; as, that the true 
explanation of phenomena is that which assigns them to the fewest 
causes; and this presupposes others, as, that there is such a thing as 
cause and effect at all, that order implies causation, that there is any 
real cause but the One First Cause, that the theory of the Occasionists 
is false, and that what happened yesterday will happen to-morrow; 
moreover, that phenomena arc facts, that there is such a tiling as 
matter, that our senses are trustworthy, and so on. Now meta- 
physicians grant to Newton all that he asks; but, if so be, they may 
not prove equally accommodating to another who asks something 
else, and then all his most logical conclusions in the science of physics 
would remain hopelessly on the stocks, though finished, and never 
could be launched into the sphere of fact. 

Again, did I know nothing about the passage of bodies, except 
what the theory of gravitation supplies, were I simply absorbed in 
that theory so as to make it measure all motion on earth and in the sky, 
I should indeed come to many right conclusions, I should hit ofi many 



important facts, ascertain many existing relations, and correct many 
popular errors: I should scout and ridicule with great success the old 
notion, that light bodies flew up and heavy bodies fell down; but I 
should go on with equal confidence to deny the phenomenon of 
capillary attraction. Here I should be wrong, but only because I 
carried out my science irrespectively of other sciences. In like manner, 
did I simply give myself to the investigation of the external action of 
body upon body, I might scoff at the very idea of chemical affuiities 
and combinations, and reject it as simply unintelligible. Were I a 
mere chemist, I should deny the influence of mind upon bodily 
health; and so on, as regards the devotees of any science, or family of 
sciences, to the exclusion of others; they necessarily become bigots 
and quacks, scorning all principles and reported facts, which do not 
belong to their own pursuit, and thinking to effect every thing with- 
out aid from any other quarter. Thus, before now, chemistry has 
been substituted for medicine; and again, poHtical economy, or intel- 
lectual enlightenment, or study of the Protestant Bible, has been cried 
up as a panacea against vice, malevolence, and misery. 

Unless I am insisting on too plain a point, I would ask you. Gentle- 
men, to consider how prominent a place Induction holds in modern 
philosophy. It is especially the instrument of physical discovery; yet 
it is singularly deficient in logical cogency, and its deficiency illustrates 
the incompleteness of the sciences, severally, which respectively use 
it, for the ascertainment of particular matters of fact. Its main 
principle, I suppose, is this: — that what in our investigations is ever 
tending to be universal, may be considered universal. We assume 
that general proposition to be true, which is ever getting more and 
more like truth, the more we try it; we call that a proof, which is but 
a growing proof. We argue from some or many to all. Induction, 
thus described, is surely open to error; for, when engaged in the 
accumulation of instances, which are to subserve the elucidation of 
some particular science, it may have its path crossed any moment by 
the decisions of other sciences with reference to the remaining in- 
stances which it has not yet comprised in its investigation. In such a 
case it is of course at once interrupted and brought to a stop; and what 
actually takes place as regards some attempted inductions, may be of 
possible occurrence in many others. That is, the induction is com- 
plete for the purpose of determining the existence of a general law in 
the particular science wliich is using it; but that law is only proved to 



be general, not universal; inasmuch as particular instances, in which 
it ought to hold good, and which in fact have not been constituent 
elements of the induction, may after all fall under some general law 
of some other science also, which succeeds in modifying or changing 
them. For instance, supposing Euphrates has flowed in its bed for 
three hundred and sixty days continuously in the current year, we 
may infer a general law, and expect securely that it will flow on 
through the five days, which, being future, are external to the 
induction; and so, physically speaking, it will flow; yet in matter of 
fact it did not flow on those remaining days at a certain historical era, 
for Cyrus turned it aside, and removed the question out of physics 
into politics and strategics. A physical lecturer would not be endured, 
who denied the historical fact of the anomalous course of the stream, 
because he would not take into account the vohtion and the agency 
of man, as foreign to his science; yet certainly he would be right in 
saying that, according to physics, the river ought to flow on, and on 
the hypothesis of physics did flow in its bed all through the five days, 
as it was wont. Such is the fallacy of experimental science, when 
narrowed to some single department, instead of expanding into all. 
In political arrangements the majority compels the outstanding 
minority; but in the philosophy of induction, as some are accustomed 
to apply it, the many actually deny the existence of the few. 

Summing up what I have said, I lay it down that, no science is 
complete in itself, when viewed as an instrument of attaining the 
knowledge of facts; that every science, for this purpose, subserves the 
rest; and, in consequence, that the systematic omission of any one 
science from the catalogue, prejudices the accuracy and completeness 
of our knowledge altogether, and that, in proportion to its impor- 
tance. Not even Theology itself, though it comes from heaven, 
though its truths were given once for all at the first, though they are 
more certain than those of mathematics, not even Theology do I 
exclude from the law to which every mental exercise is subject, viz., 
from that imperfection, which ever must attend the abstract, when it 
would determine the concrete. Nor do I speak only of Natural 
Religion; for even the teaching of the Catholic Church, is variously 
influenced by the other sciences. Not to insist on the introduction of 
the Aristotelic philosophy into its phraseology, its interpretations of 
prophecy are directly affected by the issues of history, its comments 
upon Scripture by the conclusions of the astronomer and the geologist, 



and its casuistical decisions by the various experience, political, social, 
and psychological, with which times and places are ever supplying it. 

What Theology gives, it has a right to take; or rather, the interests 
of Truth obhge it to take. If we would not be beguiled by dreams, if 
we would ascertain facts as they are, then, granting Theology is a real 
science, we cannot exclude it, and still call ourselves philosophers. I 
have asserted nothing as yet as to the preeminent dignity of Religious 
Truth; I only say, if there be Religious Truth at all, we cannot shut 
our eyes to it, without prejudice to truth of every kind, physical, 
metaphysical, historical, and moral; for it bears upon all truth. And 
thus I answer the objection with which I opened this Discourse. I 
supposed the question put to me by a philosopher of the day, "Why 
cannot you go your way, and let us go ours?" I answer, in the name 
of Theology, "When Newton can dispense with the metaphysician, 
then may you dispense with us". So much at first sight; now I am 
going on to claim a little more for Theology, by classing it with 
branches of knowledge wliich may with greater decency be compared 
to it. 

Let us see then, how tliis supercihous treatment of so momentous 
a science, for momentous it must be, if there be a God, runs in a 
somewhat parallel case. The great philosopher of antiquity, when he 
v/ould enumerate the causes of the things that take place in the world, 
after making mention of those which he considered to be physical and 
material, adds, "and the mind and every tiling which is by means of 
man".^ Certainly; it would have been a preposterous course, when 
he would trace the effects he saw around him to their respective 
sources, had he directed his exclusive attention upon some one class 
or order of originating principles, and ascribed to these every thing 
which happened any where. It would indeed have been unworthy a 
genius so curious, so penetrating, so fertile, so analytical as Aristotle's, 
to have laid it down that every thing on the face of the earth could be 
accounted for by the material sciences, without the hypothesis of 
moral agents. It is incredible that in the investigation of physical 
results he could ignore so influential a being as man, or forget that, 
not only brute force and elemental movement, but knowledge also 
is power. And this, so much the more, inasmuch as moral and spiritual 
agents belong to another, not to say a higher, order than physical; 
so that the omission supposed would not ha